Impulse
by himawarixxsandz
Summary: One who thinks does not act upon Impulse. AU Accompaniment to Secrets series.
1. Prologue

One who thinks clearly does not engage in sexual activity below the legal age and lose one's virginity to one's senior by half a decade.

One who thinks rationally does not engage in sexual activity with one's middle school teacher.

One who thinks sensibly does not lose one's anal virginity on a stone balcony whilst under the legal age.

One who thinks smartly does not engage in sexual activity with a minor.

One who thinks ahead does not become so inebriated that one involves oneself in a ménage a trois involving one's ex and one's enemy.

One who thinks does not act upon Impulse.

* * *

First there was Intrigue.

Then there was Secrets.

But the secrets and intrigue are spurred on by impulses—those naughty little moments that, at first, might not seem like much at all, but you'll end up fucking yourself so badly that even though you're Intrigued to do more, you have to keep it a Secret. See how that works?

Right. 'Course you do.

Now. Secrets exhausted me. Intrigue is wearying me out—although, there's never a thing as too much fun, so it's a _good_ kind of tired, y'know? Plus, nothing compares to the satisfaction of all of you lovely little butterflies.

So now, instead of having to start another gigantic work of genius, I'd rather play fill in the blank. That's where impulses come in.

Impulses are those little moments—that glance, that gaze, that smoldering touch, that hot brush—that ignite those monumental mistakes, mishaps, and regrettable affairs.

But impulses are first reactions—initial reactions—and those are caused by pure truth. So really, impulses are the best mistakes you'll ever make.

From first times, to last times, to all the times in between…I'm going to give you a look on all the mistakes Y made…all the wishes F had…all the dirty thoughts A's mind fantasized…I'll show you how M came to be such a bad boy…I'll give you everyone's first time (front and back), and I'll show you that even the Holy Trinity has to start somewhere, and how the un-holiness that they're all infamous for started a whole lot earlier than you think.

It's going to be fun. Don't you think?

Remember, this'll just be a behind the scenes thing. I mean, I don't really need to actually tell any of you to keep these Secret, right? If you were Intrigued enough to dive into it, then you'll definitely be allured into acting on an Impulse.

Just sit back and watch, lovelies.

You never know. The impulses these kids had might surprise you.

But then again, it'd be more surprising if they _don't_, now wouldn't it?

* * *

_A/N: This is kind of going to be like Music To My Ears. I'll be updating it as life goes along. It isn't a story, it's mainly just one-shots of the Secrets universe. It literally will be like filling the blanks on a Secrets timeline. And you probably will (or will not be) really surprised on how early things start. It won't necessarily be in chronological order, but rest assure that I'll write in a way that there won't be any confusion as to when it's taking place._


	2. Y and D

First Time: Yuui Fluorite and Shizuka Doumeki

Yuui looked around to make sure that there weren't any adults within a four-meter radius of him who were actually paying attention to his actions. Once he'd assured to himself that this was fact, he grinned blithely and poured two of the pre-prepared glasses of wine into his own punch. He thought that he fucking well deserved some fun. He'd only had alcohol twice before, and it wasn't as though he was going to make this a habit.

Besides, Kyle's white party was just another chance for him to show everyone what a good and quiet child—whore—Fai was and which days Fai was available. To say the least, it made Yuui want to grind the bastard doctor into individually wrapped sausages. But Kyle had made sure that Yuui was encumbered away talking with other adults who wanted to know how school was going, and which high school he planned on, and college and so on and so forth.

Of course no one cared or gave a shit that it was hot as burning hell, and even though it was a white party, the clothes Kyle had forced Yuui to wear might as well have been pitch black with how heavy they were. And no one really wanted to hear how horny Yuui had been. He couldn't wait until he was given a chauffeur of his own. At the moment, Yuui had been stuck with sneaking out from school to get some. And he'd only been able to do so four times.

There had been his first ever time with Karen Kasumi—five years older than him, and a freshman at Kaiyou Institute. The girls high school for all the artsy girls.

And that hadn't really been all that satiating. So he'd decided to try again with a few other girls who were older—one a college sophomore—and still not much luck. He could get hard and stuff, but it really wasn't as brilliant as he thought it might be.

Yuui sighed and chugged down half of the contents in his glass. Whatever sort of wine Kyle had gotten, it was good. He checked the label, and raised his eyes appreciatively at the unfamiliar name: Prosecco. He should get more of whatever that was. It was amazing.

His blue eyes scanned the milling socialites. There were a few of their children here and there. So far he'd seen some vaguely familiar faces from school, but he didn't think they were really that interesting to talk to. Most of them didn't even know how to roll a joint, much less smuggle some from South America. Unless he counted Kamui Sumeragi. Yuui didn't care much for the other Sumeragi twin, but Kamui was decent. Hot, too. The pianist planned to ask the writer to teach him how to do weed and coke the next time he came over.

Yuui yawned leisurely, and stretched, his back arching purposely—this was usually how he caught potential candidates. After all, he was hoping he'd lose his virginity in the case of his derriere sometime between this week and the next. He knew enough that "normal children" his age were still having first kisses and relationships and other crap, but really, in Yuui's eyes—and world—once you were old enough to get it up, by all means: Use the damn thing.

He pushed his lips forward in an absent-minded pout and touched the rim of his glass to his mouth, humming the softest of tunes. If he hummed hard enough in his head, he could almost forget that the sweat on the nape of his neck had caused his collar to stick; the perspiration on his temples and forehead had plastered his usually airy and fair pale gold hair. The wetter it got, the darker it grew, and that just irritated him.

Yuui flopped his hair out of his face and tried visually cruising the guests again. He didn't quite find what he thought he was looking for, but he did find something potentially interesting and extremely alluring.

Some…kid…who looked like he was Yuui's age was staring right at the pianist with this stone-like expression. It wasn't cold or indifferent…it was just…stony. And for some reason—whether it was the alcohol or Yuui's sprouting, raging, roving hormones—the stoniness was incredibly sexy, and Yuui felt his spirits rise exponentially. He might have some fun after all.

But Yuui wanted to be sure first. He gazed directly at the kid and licked his lips. Slowly and tantalizingly. The pianist stood up, and then just as slowly—on his tiptoes to make sure that even through the crowd, the boy would see—and just as hypnotically, Yuui removed his belt and threw it underneath the nearest clothed table. The kid's absent eyes shot open wide. Yuui smiled and winked.

Yes. This would be great fun.

Yuui put on an exaggerated show of stretching out his arms so that his stiff white shirt rode up enough to show a sliver of skin, tightly wound around fit hips. He let his waistband fall until they were stopped by the slightest curve of his body. He shot a smile of mock adoration at the boy, whose eyes had widened until Yuui was sure they could go no larger.

Yuui let his smile fade a bit, and arched one eyebrow at the boy, the pianist's head beckoning subtly. Yuui didn't look back once as he turned and went up the stairs at the side of Kyle's house. He made sure that the crowd was sufficiently thick enough around him so that Fai and Kyle weren't able to see him escape the monotony.

* * *

Doumeki thought he had to be dreaming. No. Really. There was no way that a girl that hot would be giving him _that_ Look. Even though he was only in sixth grade—twelve wasn't _that_ young, God—he already knew all about the different sorts of Looks, and in his opinion they were all overrated when he himself did them. But when the right person with the right appearance did each respective Look, it was pure…brilliance. For example, when that seventh grader, Kimihiro Watanuki gave him the Look—the Look that told Doumeki that he should go fuck off—it was just plain amusing.

But when a senior from Maikeru gave him that same Look—especially if he was a wrestler—Doumeki knew he'd better either learn to kick the senior in the balls fast and run, or just…y'know, run.

And there was this Look. The one that the hottest girl in all of the worlds, universes, galaxies, countries, nations, Milky Ways and other areas of the plane, had given him. Basically, it was the Look that gave the O.K. for some good-old fashioned fucking. The Look consisted of three steps: 1) the person would look you straight in the eyes; 2) the person would look down at you and scan your…goods; and finally 3) the person would return his or her eyes to yours and if the look was smolderingly hot then you had permission to fuck them into a wall—or any other solid surface.

He just hoped to all the deities up above—and maybe even down below—that she wouldn't give a shit, or shit a brick, when he told her (or when she found out) that he was a virgin. He looked around at the waiters walking by, holding silver platters with tiny versions of wine glasses filled to the brim with some golden liquid. Doumeki made sure that his parents weren't looking as he grabbed three of the little glasses and shot them down in one gulp.

He was going to need it whether he was successful or not. Oh. And he crossed his mental fingers that the girl had brought a condom with her. Or that she was on the pill. Or better: She was infertile. 'Cause, y'know, he really didn't want to be a dad. Or kill a baby.

Christ. Since when did getting laid become so complicated? Maybe he should just convert to being a homo—it sounded so much easier. The most he had to worry about was getting HIV.

But, whatever.

* * *

Yuui had made himself comfortable on the balcony, leaning against the edge, but not too far over so that none of the guests below on the patio were able to see him. He'd already finished all of his drink, and all he needed now was the boy. He amused himself with possibilities—maybe the boy was bi? What if he was straight? Even better, a virgin? A gay virgin? A straight one that was just waiting for Yuui to claim him as a homo?

As soon as the glass doors opened, Yuui turned around slowly, and the boy's black pupils fell right to the pianist's blatantly opened fly. Yuui had purposely done so—it was the easiest test to see if the boy was a virgin or not. And apparently, this one was. The boy's eyes were looking at the unzipped fly as if it were his Holy Grail.

"You're…" the boy muttered. "A guy?"

Ah. So the boy was straight—or, he _had_ been.

Yuui smiled. "And you're a virgin—front and back." He remained where he was and let the poor thing come to him. When the boy was halfway across the balcony, Yuui went past him and locked the doors. He leaned against them and faced the boy. "So. What's your name? I haven't ever seen you before."

"Shizuka Doumeki. I go to Senzoku."

Yuui raised his eyebrows. "The middle school? Just how old are you?"

"Twelve."

Yuui shrugged. "Not bad. Can you get it up?"

"Yes." Doumeki looked down as if to make sure that it was still there. Yuui laughed and jumped, practically knocking the boy to the ground, his pale hands pinning Doumeki's wrists. "Are you gay?"

"I've done girls before," Yuui said. "This is my first time with a guy—well, at least all the way. First time for my sorry little behind." As he grinned, he felt Doumeki's fingers crawl up the back of his thigh until they reached the Promised Land. It wasn't like he hadn't been groped before, and it was rather adorable how the boy's fingers were hesitant.

Doumeki coughed awkwardly, his face determinedly expressionless. "So…are we, like…going to do it? Now? _Here_…?"

"Where else are we going to do it?" Yuui smirked. "How about a hotel? With a bed in the shape of a heart? With soft romantic songs playing on the surround sound stereo, we'll gently make love to each other? Trust me, it's going to be a lot more fun like this. You'll have something to brag about while you and your friends get your mats ready for naptime."

"We don't have naptime."

"Of course you don't."

Doumeki looked at him squarely. "And I wouldn't brag. Then I'd be a prick."

Yuui's eyes blinked into twice their original size. His expression softened at Shizuka Doumeki's empty face. It wasn't empty like…broken empty, or sad empty…it was…it was kind of like rock empty. Not bad or good…just simple. And sturdy. And loyal. Even if a bit stubborn. The pianist smiled—a real smile this time. He caressed Doumeki's cheek…down to his jaw line, and over his lips. "All right." In one swift move, Yuui switched their positions, so that Doumeki was the pinning Yuui's wrists to the stone. Yuui tilted his head, his pale hair splayed like a halo. "There."

Doumeki just stared—it looked like he'd maybe gone into shock.

Yuui laughed. "If you want—if it really bothers you—you can pretend I'm a girl. I don't care."

Doumeki shook his head profusely. Yuui gestured at his own wrists. Doumeki jolted and loosened his hands. The pianist smiled as Doumeki's eyes widened when he realized he'd been pressing down so tightly that Yuui's white wrists were stained with black and blue.

Yuui could see panic growing in Doumeki's otherwise expressionless face. He laughed again. "C'mon, are you that nervous? You can't even kiss me?" He fingered the bit of hair that curled automatically around Doumeki's ear. "Let's make this a lesson, 'kay? First, you've got to—" Yuui grasped Doumeki's broad—surprisingly, for a twelve-year-old—shoulders and pulled himself to Doumeki's lips. "—do that."

Doumeki gazed absently down. Yuui was silent. Slowly, just as the pianist knew he would, Doumeki leaned down, arching his neck, and kissed Yuui back—slowly and carefully, as though he was trying to get it just right. "Good job." Yuui's hand slid down to rest against the boy's neck. "Now, try it again—and this time, don't stop. Just…let it…happen."

Doumeki bowed his head in understanding and held the side of Yuui's face in his large hand, steadying the pianist. The boy tilted his face to the side and touched his lips with Yuui's again, trying—attempting to open and close his mouth against the musician's. Yuui went with it until the chastity of the kiss began to bore him. And then…there was tongue.

Which didn't really faze Doumeki like Yuui thought it would. Instead, the younger boy pressed his body down until Yuui was slammed tight against the stone floor—the pianist could feel that part of Doumeki harden along with his own…part. Yuui blindly reached down until he found Doumeki's hand; he guided it to the buttons of his white shirt, framing the buttons with Doumeki's fingers. Doumeki seemed to understand what his next direction was and began unclasping Yuui's shirt.

Their lips never parted once.

Doumeki's hand ran down the white expanse of Yuui's torso, down the baby-like skin. Yuui was enjoying how shy and virginal Doumeki was acting, but he knew one way to get this started rough and hard—literally. Yuui reached down again, and this time, he aimed right for Doumeki's crotch.

After that, even Yuui was surprised how fast and how aggressively Doumeki attacked him. He knew it would be at the speed of light once he touched that part, but for a sixth grader, it was pretty effing fantastic. It took all Yuui had to stop him long enough to use the condom and the lubricant.

And even after that, Yuui had to bite his own arm to keep from screaming and alerting those below them—the guests who were all unsuspectingly enjoying a calm, and quiet summer evening (a scorching summer evening) while two boys above them were carnally indulging.

Yuui's back arched painfully against the cold stone—but even the icy coolness of the granite couldn't stop the flushed perspiration from wetting Yuui's hair all the way through; it now looked dark gold instead of pale gold. His fingers grated desperately at Doumeki's shoulders—scratching urgently—as he felt the peak coming. But Doumeki's lips covered his, muffling the shout as both of them jumped the cliff.

It took all of ten minutes for their pulses to turn back to normal, and for both of them to regain enough strength to move their heads. Yuui turned his face toward Doumeki. The pianist pulled the corner of his mouth into a partial smile. "Atta boy."

Doumeki was breathing rather violently, his bare sweat-slicked chest going up and down in a torrent. His head lolled to the side, eyes dazedly taking in Yuui's flushed face. Yuui raised his eyebrows wearily. "Yes?"

"You never told me your name."

"Yuui. Yuui Fluorite. Pleasure to meet you."

"No. Pleasure's all mine. Really."

* * *

_A/N: Yeah, so in this one Yuui's in eighth grade (just like me, and yet I can't imagine myself doing half these things, and I doubt any of you had either at that age....probably hadn't even kissed anyone yet) and Doumeki's in sixth grade--at which most kids are even still getting over the fact that the opposite gender will not infect you with some sort of contagious and fatal disease. _


	3. King T and Y II

* * *

First Kiss: Touya Kinomoto and Yukito Tsukishiro

Touya slung the duffel bag containing his change of clothes for soccer practice over his shoulder. He'd just finished showering, and was planning on attempting to sneak back in to his classroom and see if he could grab his pre-algebra book. They had homework that consisted of notes that he should've taken in class, but instead he'd spent it dreaming about Amaterasu Daidoji.

There was also a perma-scowl present on his face since Yukito had somehow managed to beat him in a wrestling match—again. From appearance alone, Touya looked to be the stronger one—the larger one. And once you knew that Yukito was a dancer and Touya was a soccer player—a striker who could kick a ball of fury into your balls—you'd think that Touya was still the stronger one. And he was. But Yukito was the slipperier one. He could slide in and out nimbly where Touya couldn't.

Still. It was an insult to Touya's manliness. Or something like that.

He carpooled with Yukito, which meant that he had to pick him up from the dance studio at their school; usually Yukito was already sitting outside the studio, showered and ready to go. Touya turned the halls and went down the familiar set of empty dance rooms. Yukito's was at the end.

That was weird. Touya frowned. Yukito wasn't sitting in front of the doorway. He peered into the studio, and the dancer wasn't there either. However, there was a boy and a girl stretching on the slippery wooden floor. The girl glanced up at him. "Yes?"

"Oh," Touya blinked. Really, she was quite hot. "I'm looking for Yukito Tsukishiro. He's usually here at this time."

"He's in the basketball court," the boy said.

"Thanks." Touya waved a hand and tried not to blink anymore. Basketball? Yukito didn't play basketball. Yukito didn't play any sports. Or at least, not any that Touya knew of.

But no. Apparently, the agility of a dancer stretched out to any other athletics. The door of the gym was unlocked—the gym was only a few turns away from the studio—and Touya stood in the doorway, watching Yukito's sneakers squeak, pivoting and running as though the sport were a dance, and the ball was his partner.

Touya had always thought dancing was for girls. That'd been until he'd seen the way Yukito did it. It wasn't any…manlier, but it certainly wasn't girly, and it sure as hell wasn't easy. It was some wonder how Yukito had only so far managed to break his glasses twice, and was still determined enough to keep them rather than reverting to contacts.

The soccer player brought his hands together and began to clap slowly, walking towards Yukito. The dancer bounced the ball into his hands and stood still, watching Touya approach him. "Oh. Sorry. I forgot to call you and tell you that I'd be here."

"So why are you?" Touya grabbed the ball from Yukito's hands and began dribbling in place. He tossed the ball into the air a few times.

Yukito shrugged. "I dunno. I haven't done anything like this in ages. It's been all dance for months on end. Trying to get a routine for my audition to Fuki's dance department. I felt like…taking a break." He smiled. "Would've it been better if I'd chosen to kick around a soccer ball instead?"

Touya grinned and threw the ball back. "I don't care. C'mon, let's play."

They were the children of socialites. They were going to lead lives normal people could only dream about living, and they really took most everything they had and would have for granted—like oxygen to them. But in a game like this…in a simple game that all boys spoke, they were really nothing more than that. Boys.

It was all to be expected from any pair of young boys, tussling out in the simplest, most casual of basketball games. Impulsive shouting, crude language, laughing, shoving, falling, jumping back up, punching around, constant body contact, sweat flying from hair and beading down foreheads…

And it ended just as normally—as ordinarily. Touya was lying flat on the gym floor, his shirt stripped off, and his hair uncomfortably damp beneath his scalp. Yukito was on his side, propped up on the basketball, facing Touya's spread-eagle form. They were panting, they were still half-laughing, and they were…well, normal.

"Did you see Amaterasu this week?" Touya said with a grin. "Dude, those boobs can't possibly be real. How much do you wanna bet that she got them done when her family went to Cali last month?"

Yukito laughed. "Two."

"Thousand?"

"Hundred, dumbass. My parents cut my allowance by a thousand, so I haven't got much to last on for the next few weeks." Yukito punched the side of Touya's head.

"Oy." Touya sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "That hurt." He shoved the ball from beneath Yukito, causing the dancer to nearly fall flat on his face. Yukito stopped himself in time, and looked up at Touya with a look that set Touya running across the gym. Laughing.

Yukito raced behind him. "Man, I swear--!"

"Hey, you can't even catch me," Touya shouted back, running backward, his pants coming out as full-on laughs. "You may have spent a million hundred hours getting yourself tossing girls into the air, but you haven't ever done suicides on a soccer—"

But Yukito did catch him. They collapsed to the ground, and Touya immediately moved so that he was on top. Their faces were inches away, and breathing was so thick and heavy that they could feel the air touch each other's lips. Touya's hands held himself up low enough so that their crotches brushed against one another. Smiles faded. Heads dipped close. Lips touched.

"Hell." Touya scrambled away, one hand over his mouth. "I'm not gay," he added quickly, as if racing to see which one of them would say it first.

"Neither am I," whispered Yukito.

* * *

_A/N: I didn't really like how this one turned out. Which is probably why it's so short. But y'know, Touya is really a character that's basically the average teenage boy, and for me to imagine how any of my football/basketball/ironically-soccer-hating guy friends even IMAGINING that they might be gay is hysterically NOT funny, since I'm sure they might even kill themselves (not knowing that most girls in our grade think it's kind of hot when guys kiss). And I know this because in science class, two of the guys were arguing (they're like the infamous pair of archnemeses in the grade) because one of them was going to a public high school when we graduate, and the other was going to an all-boys private high school (hm, sound familiar?) and the one that was going to the public school told the other one that he'd eventually turn gay, while the one going to the all-boys school said that at least he'd be getting a good-education and then going on about how their football team is awesome and some such crap. I highly doubt that he will become a homo, since y'know, he sits behind me in homeroom and is the most perverted (hilariously entertaining, though) chauvinistic guy (that verges on being a creep) that i've met so far in my life. He really _is_ a chauvinist though. Talks about girls like we're in the 1900s._


	4. Deary K and Captain F

_A/N: If you're familiar with Hikaru Kaitou's Their Love in Fifty Words fanfic, then you'll know how this bit is going to work. If you aren't, then let me explain: It's going to span out more than just one chapter, but basically if you see the chapter title Secrets: and then whatever names, it'll tell the story of those characters within the Secrets timeframe, because Fai and Kurogane sure as crap weren't the only ones with juicy plots during that year. This mini series within a series happens to be Kamui and Fuuma's story, and it's basically the result of rereading those KamuixFuuma moments in Tokyo Revelations in TRC, and I just naively realized how hot these two really are together. No, I haven't read them in X, because I already know how they end, and I really don't like endings THAT violently sad SO without further ado--_

* * *

Secrets: Kamui Sumeragi and Fuuma Sakurazuka

Kamui's fingers flew over his keyboard, but his eyes never left the screen of his Mac once. If you typed enough, then you rarely made any mistakes, and you didn't have to look up and down and possibly give your neck a sore, and your head a headache. He adjusted his screen a few times and checked ten of his tabs out. His phone ringed at the same time he was taking a sip of his coffee. He stood up from his desk and went to it.

There was a return text from Amaterasu. She'd been right beside him only minutes ago, and she was already telling him off for moping around in his dorm—again. Unlike what everyone—even the rest of the Sacreds—thought, Kamui wasn't having a difficult time getting over Amaterasu. He didn't even like Amaterasu anymore. The only reason he glared at her more than was normal for anyone to glare at a person was because they were friends.

And as his friend, she never ceased to egg him on about the freshman captain of the Akamizu soccer team.

He glanced at the text, and decided to ignore it. Kamui walked around to drain all of the remaining contents of his mug into the sink and poured himself a flute of Prosecco instead. Coffee was fine and dandy, but alcohol was really what a Sacred needed these days. And quite an amount, at that.

Kamui knew he was as desirable as Yuui. If not, maybe more, since unlike the pianist, he didn't flaunt everything he had in broad daylight and dark moonlight. Right here, right now, in his dorm, dressed in absolutely—_absolutely_—nothing but an overlarge Akamizu sweatshirt and black boxers, he knew that he was one of the most lust-inducing pictures on campus.

The thing was, he didn't exactly know how he was supposed to face Fuuma. Subaru and Seishiro had solved all their ridiculous problems in the nick of time last year. But now that The Brother excuse had expired what was Kamui supposed to do? Go up to Fuuma and say, "So now that my brother is with your brother happily ever after, let's go off into the sunset with them"?

No chance.

Kamui had more dignity than the average person—it was a writer thing—and he liked keeping it that way. Besides, there'd been more than enough to handle this year—what with Kurogane You-ou showing up, Fuuma coming to Akamizu, Subaru moping around because of Seishiro, Fuuma coming to Akamizu, Fai getting all reminiscent about insanely reliving his past, Fuuma coming to Akamizu, Mioru Aoi being Rondart's next victim, and Fuuma coming to Akamizu.

Did he mention Fuuma coming to Akamizu?

It wasn't like Fuuma had sexually harassed him or anything. Yet, that is. The masquerade ball was coming up in less than a day, and Kamui knew that Fuuma would be attending. The soccer player had already given Kamui the Look at Hexagon numerous times. At the masquerade party…definitely something. Something was definitely going to go down, and it was all Kamui could do to hope that whatever would be going down wouldn't be him.

Kamui's head turned toward the door. There'd just been a knock. He closed his eyes and sighed when the person knocked again. "Leave me alone," he muttered, standing up heavily and crossing the room to open it.

Fucking fantastic. It was the Maestro—returned to Akamizu.

"What?" Kamui said flatly.

Seishiro was looking every inch his perfect conductor self—if you asked Kamui, it didn't look at all like the bastard missed Subaru. To Kamui, it truly looked like Seishiro had grown up and out of the high school and college scandals socialites had and became a full-on adult socialite—ready to pay any amount of bribe to keep what they'd done as a teenager on the down low. After all, it was the route all of their lives would eventually take. It'd basically been laid down as unwritten law since their socialite ancestors in the 1900s. "You're looking well," Seishiro said, smiling. "May I come in?"

"It's not as if you'll settle if I refuse, right?" Kamui moved out of the way. "Close the door after you." The writer returned to his seat at the dining table, while Seishiro sat on the sofa. Kamui noticed that the conductor's eyes were focused on the junior's bare legs. "Mind your peepers or they might get poked out with a carving knife," he snapped.

The Maestro smiled wider. "My apologies. But your body really does resemble Subaru's."

"We're twins—that's sort of the idea," Kamui retorted sarcastically. "You're still sick, and I still have no clue why my brother loves you. If we're from the same egg, I don't see why he can't—"

Seishiro laughed. "Really? Because it seems to me you love _my_ brother. So if I were you, I wouldn't be worried about family ties—you and your brother are perfectly alike when it comes to taste." As the Maestro said that, his eyes swept up Kamui's thighs. "Along with…other details."

"Bastard."

"Who ever said I wasn't?"

Kamui started to bring his knees against his chest absentmindedly, until he realized that Seishiro's eyes were waiting for that exact position to happen. The writer swiftly dropped his legs back down and brought them up on the chair Indian style—which seemed like the only harmless position there was. There was the alternative of actually putting on pants, but that seemed like too much work for the moment. "I was hoping last year would've somewhat changed you—you know, having the trauma of seeing the one you love, no matter how many times denied, nearly raped and possibly killed."

Seishiro smiled. "And yet, I'm still me. Wonderful, isn't it?"

"Not remotely." Kamui folded his arms, the sleeves billowing out from him like huge, gray clouds. "Now what do you want? I'm writing something for Yuuko and like most things concerning her, it's best that I don't screw it up because my brother's asshole boyfriend comes over."

"Your brother's asshole boyfriend has some advice for you," Seishiro said with a raise of his eyebrows. He picked up Kamui's phone from the table near the sofa's armrest and threw it to the writer—who caught it right before it hit the floor and broke into smithereens.

Kamui fingered the cell. "What?"

"Call him," Seishiro said. "Please. He's driven to the hotel I'm staying at four times in succession just to sit there and talk to me about what I could possibly have done him wrong in making you hate him even more. You two haven't spoken in what, three years? It's getting ridiculous."

Kamui gave him a Look. "What am I supposed to say? The reason I didn't want to be with him in the first place is because of the shit you and Subaru fucked up. Now that there is no more shit to be fucked up, am I just supposed to back to him and expect everything to be sunshine and daisies?"

"I know that you love Subaru." Seishiro pulled out a joint and lit it—without even asking Kamui. "But I never did really believe that you'd just up and tell Fuuma to fuck off like you did three years ago just because Subaru and I duked it out a bit." He stood up and handed Kamui the joint, "Am I right?"

Kamui accepted the smoke and fit it between his lips. "Of course you are, Maestro—right on track, as always. Although, there are some minor details that need to be fitted into the story you've got."

"So you want to tell me why exactly?" Seishiro took back the joint.

"It didn't have _nothing_ to do with you and Subaru, you know. There was a lot caused because of what you did to him. I saw it," Kamui said quietly, looking up at Seishiro with hard eyes. "I had to watch Subaru through the entire thing—meeting you, getting enchanted by you, falling in love with you…getting his heart stomped on again and again. You didn't have to always push him down the _minute_ he managed to get back up."

"I did have to," Seishiro said calmly. He sat down across Kamui at the table. "I did it to everyone I slept with. What should make him any different? Because he's your brother? Everyone I slept with must've been someone's brother or sister—someone's close friend. They all knew the rules. Some were even younger than Subaru was. He knew the rules, too. He _chose_ to get pushed down."

Kamui's expression contorted, but he knew it was true. He knew that Subaru's own stubborn stupidity was what got him all this grief. But he waited for Seishiro to talk.

"But I'm glad he was absurd enough to do that," Seishiro said, smiling. "He's the first who ever had the balls to keep pushing until I had to let him through—he's a persistent little twat, isn't he?"

"Extremely, by all means." Kamui sighed. "And you love him."

"Unfortunately. But I do." Seishiro raised an eyebrow. "And at least I know enough to admit it and face the unluckiness life as granted me with. Anyhow, being in love isn't as terrorizing as it is in those books you write. It's quite pleasant sometimes."

"That's precisely it," Kamui snapped. "My books don't acknowledge love as it truly is. No books in the world tell what love is really like except for Yuuko's. Love isn't something that's funny or romantic, or troublesome at first and t hen rewarding at the end. Love is a link—to your family and to your friends and to other people. Being _in_ love is a chain—your locked and you can't get back to where you started."

"Well." Seishiro smiled into his joint. "That's a lovely perspective on things, now isn't it? It isn't _that_ terrible, I assure you. Now stop being a prick and call my darling little brother before he commits suicide and my parents disown me."

"Could you leave?" Kamui said. "I'd like to make this coerced private phone call in _private_—thus the name, really."

"My deepest apologies," Seishiro said mockingly. "I'll be taking my leave now, and I expect something to happen at the masked ball tomorrow night—something productive."

Kamui watched irritably, as the conductor stood up and left—letting the door close by itself with a resound snap. The writer looked out the window and back down at his cell phone. He had a photo shoot with Yuuko in about two hours. Hopefully, that would be more than apt time for what would probably be the worst conversation of his entire life. Since he interned for Yuuko, it was a given that he had everyone in the social scene's cell phone number completely up-to-date.

He entered Fuuma's name, and put the phone on speaker—probably a dangerous decision because "walls have ears", but he didn't really care at this point. He just didn't want to be in a suffocating position. Kamui stood up and went to the bedroom, lying spread eagle, and placing the phone face-up beside his head. It would be exactly like the way they used to talk four years ago.

"Hello?" Fuuma's voice.

Kamui rolled onto his stomach, placing his chin on top of his hands. "Hey. It's me." And then he grimaced. Why did he even expect Fuuma to remember his voice in the first place?

But it wasn't an errant mistake, apparently. Fuuma seemed to know exactly whom the voice belonged to. "Kamui…?" Although, it didn't mean the captain didn't sound completely shocked.

"Yeah." Kamui turned to the side, his head resting against his arm. He hoped the circulation wouldn't be blocked—even though it always ended up losing feeling a few minutes into this position. "You sound good. How are you?"

"Fine." He heard Fuuma laugh. "Did you lock yourself in again?"

Kamui smiled slightly. "How did you guess?"

"A little birdie came and told me."

"There've been a lot of little birdies around campus, so I've seen."

Fuuma laughed again. "Have you now?" Kamui could easily see him smiling at his phone. "You sound pretty good, too. Who's the guy this time? Usually when you lock yourself in, you end up sounding like the avid smoker you are."

"You should be proud this time around, then," Kamui rolled back onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "The guy is you." There was an odd silence from Fuuma's line. Kamui waited.

The soccer captain's voice was serious, now. But Kamui could still see the smile that had to be on his face, all the same. "Really? That's good to know. I heard you were getting friendly with Amaterasu. Didn't work out, huh?"

"No. All this year…" Kamui exhaled. "She's basically been your envoy—she, my brother, and Seishiro. They've all kind of been…coercing me"—Fuuma laughed—"to call you. So…here I am."

Fuuma was silent again, and then, "Are you naked?"

Kamui stared at the phone. He'd forgotten what Fuuma could be like. "What?"

"Are you naked?" the voice repeated seriously.

"No, I am not naked!" Kamui nearly yelled—until he realized he was alone, and that raising his voice at the air above the phone would be just the slightest bit moronic. "Ah, go to hell, Fuuma." But he only edged nearer to the phone.

"Only if you come with me," Fuuma teased gently.

Kamui stroked the side of the Blackberry thoughtfully. "I might."

"Well, you know," said Fuuma—again, Kamui could hear the smile, "hell is a bit extreme for now. How about we just settle for Rondart's masquerade ball tomorrow night? Unless…you already have a date?"

"I don't have one." Kamui smiled. "But I'm not going with you." He could positively see Fuuma's eyebrows go up, and how his smile would turn up higher at the corners with mild surprise.

"I hear a challenge."

"Find me, and you can take my mask off." Kamui's eyes sparked. "And you can't ask if it's me or not. You have to lead me off—or whoever you think is me—right away."

"And when I find you?"

"You're sure?" Kamui laughed, "Because you said 'when'."

"Of course."

"You know what happens when masks come off," Kamui murmured. "You've been to masked balls before. When it strikes midnight, the masks come off—"

"And the revelries begin," Fuuma finished like it was a poetry recital. "Who doesn't know that? But if I find you—_when_ I find you…I get to take your mask off whether it's midnight or not."

"But how will I know if it's you?" Kamui asked.

Fuuma had already hung up.

* * *

_A/N: Oh, one more thing. If you hadn't noticed, in Secrets when I mentioned Fuuma, I accidentally made him a senior and didn't really think much of it because I didn't know I'd span out the universe so much, but then I decided to make him a freshman because of various reasons--the simplest being that I needed more of an age difference between Fuuma and Seishiro, and Fuuma and Kamui. So if you'd just ignore that minor yet blatant editing felony._


	5. Deary K and Captain F Masked

_A/N: Okay, before you read on, I just wanted to say that the whole "four years ago" deal is something that hasn't yet happened in Intrigue yet. So when that does happen, it'll make more sense with Kamui and Fuuma always referring to "four years ago". But you probably already figured that out. 0_0. So i'll just shut up now. _

* * *

Secrets—The Masquerade: Kamui Sumeragi and Fuuma Sakurazuka

Fuuma smiled behind the black and white mask. He'd always thought that the only reason masquerade masks only covered the top half of one's face was so that the ones attending the ball would be able to get as inebriated enough for the revelry to be present. But once he'd secured his target for the night—and hopefully forever—he realized that the reason for the masks covering the top part of one's face was very different.

Talking to a beautiful woman in a butterfly mask—a timeless woman with skin like the moon, and hair like the night behind it—was a young man, who, even though decked out like he was out of a 19th century novel, couldn't hide the infamous boyish figure that was by itself already a signature of the Holy Trinity twins; there were two pairs: Dark and light. The perfected tousle of give-away dark, interrupted by isolated strands of gold, spilled over the top edge of the grey satin mask.

But it was neither of those blatant hints that Fuuma found Kamui so easily. For anyone else, it might've been the hair or his body, but for Fuuma it was so, so very easily the eyes. Those large, childish eyes—the kind of big grey-blue pools that no one dared make cry, because if eyes like that cried, the entire world would cry along.

What was an extreme feature that resided at the top of one's face? Eyes. And those large childish eyes had been watching Fuuma, as much as Fuuma had been watching Kamui. Fuuma would know those eyes anywhere—he even knew the difference between the eyes of Kamui, and Subaru's eyes. Fuuma knew that his brother did, too. Subaru's eyes always welcomed—always. It made him seem more vulnerable. But really, Kamui was the truly vulnerable one—Fuuma should probably tell him this some time…that having such a guard in every gaze only made people want to pierce it through even more. There was more allure—more mystery. After all, humans always want what they can't have more than what they could.

Or, maybe Fuuma was just a slight touched in the head.

Ah, well—to live this life…weren't they all?

Fuuma placed his champagne flute on the tray of a passing waiter and began to make his way through the crowds surrounding the dance floor. He saw Kamui's eyes widen slightly in what might've either been terror or apprehension, or most likely just terror. But all Fuuma could detect inside himself was utter, and complete relief. Having heard Kamui's voice during that one call the other day was like letting out a breath he never realized he'd been withholding.

Every step he took toward Kamui felt like a sledgehammer was breaking down the mental chain in his mind—the one attached to the metal lock with which he'd locked away the memories from four years ago.

Step. His hands in Kamui's swimming trunks while they were immersed in the water, legs entwined while their bodies hit the tiled bottom of the pool, and bubbles floated from their mouths during the rare moments their lips separated.

Step. Kamui shaking out the droplets in his damp hair at Fuuma's face, laughing as Fuuma put up his arms in an attempt to shield himself. Fuuma grabbing Kamui from behind, arms around the lithe waist, pinning him onto the bed in their villa room.

Step. Fuuma rolling off from atop Kamui and lying spread-eagle beside him, their heads beside one another, but their legs going opposite directions. Kamui looking at him in astonishment for just a second, and then edging closer to press his lips to Fuuma's mouth.

Step. Lying in the same position, Kamui laughing after Fuuma brushed off yet another sarcastically sneak comment the writer just made about athletes. Fuuma smiling and bringing his hand up to touch Kamui's face, lightly thrumming his fingers around the area of the writer's deep set eyes.

Step. Fuuma sitting in the shadows of Fuki's editing rooms, watching Kamui lock the door and walk back to him. The soccer player trapping the writer against the wall, one hand pinning Kamui's wrist, one hand in his pocket—leaving Kamui one free hand to steady himself against the wall. Fuuma's knee is bent against the area right between Kamui's legs—the athlete probes the joint up until it brushes Kamui's crotch, and the writer's mouth opens and inhales sharply.

Step. Kamui kissing Fuuma for what would be the last time—four years ago—while simultaneously slipping a slim envelope into the soccer player's jacket pocket. Fuuma still had the letter, and he still had the jacket.

Step. "Good evening, Kamui."

* * *

It wasn't like Kamui wanted Fuuma to have a difficult time finding him. It was harder to try and make it so that Fuuma _couldn't_ find him—much harder, as someone like Kamui was too easy to recognize. Not as blatantly there and present as either of the Fluorite twins, but not as hard to distinguish as say…well…no one really. Anyone worth knowing was easy to find—by their hair, by their body, by their eyes and voice. Well…everyone save for perhaps Yuuko.

He felt Yuuko's hand on his shoulder and the musical voice whispered into his ear, "When the masks come off, deary K…"

Kamui stepped away from her, smiling slightly and looked up into Fuuma's masked face. Fuuma's lips curled into a broad grin. The athlete looked to Yuuko over Kamui's shoulder and cocked his head. "If you'll excuse us, Miss Ichihara."

Kamui didn't have to turn around to know the exact way Yuuko must have been smiling. Fuuma's eyebrows went up at whatever it felt like Yuuko mouthed, and he looked down at the writer with a grin that showed all of his white teeth. Kamui arched his own eyebrows, "Should I be afraid?"

Fuuma just laughed, holding out his hand. "C'mon."

Kamui let the soccer player lead him through the millings of people, weaving in and out, around and about those dancing and drinking, flirting and laughing, conversing seriously and teasingly. From the corner of his eye, he could see Fai and Kurogane speaking with Kyle and Mioru—that, he would have to look up on tomorrow…if any of them were still decent enough to think in their hungover minds. He could see Amaterasu winking at him from where she stood encumbered by a throng of young men. And he could see a pile of limbs on the ebony window near Kyle's study—limbs that belonged solely to his brother and Seishiro.

"Looks like everyone's having fun," Fuuma whispered into the writer's ear. They were reaching the back of the estate now—Fuuma was leading him out the back door in the kitchen and out to the cold night air. It was pitch black, and the light from the front part of the estate didn't reach.

"Where are we going?" Kamui frowned, but Fuuma kept leading him.

Fuuma grinned. "There." He pointed, and Kamui followed where his arm directed at. And that, happened to be a small, lighted shed. It stood a good amount of distance from the main house—small, and red from what Kamui could tell in the dark. There were lights already on inside the little building, and the windows were big enough so that Kamui could see a simple, plain bed within and the usual gardening appliances.

Kamui's eyes widened, and he smiled—a laugh leaking out of him. "How the hell did you find out about this? And did you already turn on the lights?"

"I got here early," Fuuma said—they'd reached the door. He pushed it open and allowed Kamui through first. "And having the Maestro as your brother isn't necessarily a bad thing. He knows Kyle. He knows what Kyle does," Fuuma's voice became quieter. "Kyle more or less does what he's told."

"More or less," Kamui repeated softly, stepping over the surprisingly clean cement floor and sitting down on the bed. "Why is it heated?"

"Something to do with the seeds kept here—the gardener stays here sometimes, and thus the bed." Fuuma didn't sit down beside the writer. The soccer player remained standing on one side of the enclosed space. He visibly locked the door, put his hands in his pockets, and leaned back to regard Kamui. The junior inhaled, throwing his head back, and holding himself up with his hands. The blankets on the bed were worn soft, and the air smelled musky—earthy, and woodsy. He closed his eyes—blocking out the dim, candlelight-like light that filled the shed.

A hand touched his hair, fiddling through the strands until the fingers wrapped around the satin ribbon that held Kamui's mask in place. It gave one small, sharp tug, and the entire thing fell into Kamui's lap. He kept his eyes closed, and let the hand remove the mask, placing probably onto a nearby wooden surface—like the bed's headboard ledge. Another hand held Kamui's jaw, tipping it up, and lips came down carefully to meet with his.

When he unveiled his eyes, they were looking up into dark, syrup gold framed by the black silk of Fuuma's mask. Fuuma's eyes had always been rather curious to Kamui—a rich, dark gold…almost like tainted gold…and a hair's breadth away from being amber like Syaoran Li's. Kamui searched for the ribbon of the athlete's mask, tugging it loose, and then tilted his head up so Fuuma could kiss him again. "You found me."

Fuuma placed one hand over Kamui's, and threaded their fingers through against the bed mattress. "Thanks for letting me." He smiled quietly, pressing their entwined hands against the athlete's chest—over the athlete's heart. Kamui tugged the hands away from Fuuma's chest and held the half that was Fuuma's hand, brushing his lips along the knuckle line.

"Why, though?" Kamui murmured against the skin.

Fuuma pulled their hands away—careful to keep them always together—and kissed Kamui again, long and slow. "Why what?" He brought his mouth down and away, and brought their tangled hands back up, letting go of Kamui's and placing the writer's gloved fingers between his teeth. He precisely bit the edge of the soft cloth and pulled, orally yanking the glove off.

"Why did you…why'd you even decide you'd talk to me? In a summary, I more or less told you to fuck off because your brother was screwing around with mine—I told you to fuck off even though you loved me," Kamui's eyes narrowed and his voice cracked slightly. Fuuma just continued to work on taking the glove off of the other hand—with his teeth, of course. "So, why now—why'd you just take me back like nothing ever happened? Why this? Why?"

Fuuma looked back up, rolling their positions so that Kamui was on top. The athlete traced the line of Kamui's cheekbone…following it down to his lips, and gently pulling his finger over them. "Because it's you." And then he laughed softly. "And don't think you're getting off so easy—I never said I'd just take you back like _nothing_ happened."

The skin between Kamui's eyebrows began to crease, serving only to make Fuuma laugh again—louder. He knew he shouldn't enjoy it this much, but making the journalist worry was just too much fun—more amusing that it should be, really. But the smile on his face was wiped clean off, when Kamui leant his head down until Fuuma could feel the soft lips moving against his own. "I'll make it up to you," Kamui whispered, his eyes fuller and glossier than any infant's. "Every night—as long as you like."

Well, now.

Fuuma swallowed—he knew that if he even attempted another signature swaggering grin, the attempt would be an extremely pitiful one. He felt down and untucked Kamui's shirt, going up into it to feel the flushed skin and then back down to unbutton and unzip his pants. The lids of Kamui's eyes slowly came down, allowing the writer to look like a small, sleepy child. Fuuma couldn't keep away the errant thought that if Kamui really was the beautiful darling boy he sometimes—or usually always—resembled, then the soccer player would most likely have already been locked behind bars without a trial.

With another quick slip, Fuuma switched their positions back, and Kamui's hair fanned out like the halo of a fallen angel—in the eerie, orange glow of the poor lighting, it made him look awfully like some sort of chosen one for a world that neared its end. Or perhaps Fuuma had been reading too much science fiction—which was probably the case.

Kamui stared up silently at Fuuma for another few seconds, before snaking his arms around the athlete's neck, and pulling himself up to Fuuma's body—lips stationed. Without breaking his mouth away, Fuuma worked their tongues through, and straightened, bring Kamui upward with him. Kamui's legs kneeled between Fuuma's outspread ones, and the freshman's arm hitched the writer up higher, grabbing the small body by the waist—his other hand moved almost frantically, yanking down Kamui's pants, tugging them off and grabbing the newly bared thighs.

Kamui's quick, deft hands unbuttoned Fuuma's shirt in one swoop, and then pushed the cloth away. The pieces of clothing fell onto the bed…fell onto the ground once accidentally or purposely shoved off…it was so quiet in the shed that the sound of the clothes hitting the floor was almost audible. There was nothing—no music, no speaking…just sighs…occasional gasps…rustles of fabric and skin against skin…body to body.

And then, everything was off, everything was on, everything was set, everything was _in_. Fuuma guided himself in, and Kamui's slight form when up, his fingers clutching at the bed sheet. With every movement, Fuuma's lips always found Kamui's.

On a swift one…one that made Kamui release his voice—cracking—out of pain or pleasure, it was nearly indistinguishable, but Fuuma covered the sound with his lips, and before pulling away, murmured into the writer's ear with the softest…quietest, most precious of smiles, "You're never leaving me like that again, understand?"

Kamui's chest rose sharply with a violently inhaled breath as Fuuma moved in and out again—the writer's fingers clutched and scratched desperately still at the blankets beneath him. "Not even if the world ends?" Another gasp.

Fuuma went in sharply—Kamui's head fell back, and his eyes closed—and left another imprint of his lips on Kamui's parted mouth. The athlete gave the lightest of grins. "Not even."

* * *

Kamui blinked his bleary eyes open to the almost blinding morning sunlight that streamed through the generous shed windows. He made to get up but two things terminally stopped him—one was his sore backside (that general area) and the other was the heavy _naked_ body that was half on top of him, and fully still unconscious.

The writer decided to wisely scoot to the side, and pick up his phone—it was poking out from the pile of their clothes on the floor. He rolled onto his back and held the screen toward him. Apparently, someone had sent him a message while he and Fuuma were…er…occupied.

_You know, deary K, I do believe I taught you better than to spin your night of masked revelry in a shed with un-blinded, un-shaded, and un-curtained windows, didn't I? Ah well, all's forgiven at a masked ball, even though I do believe you and Captain F left far too early to have even qualified for the "masked" part. But the revelries…._

_You did just fine on that._

_You do also know that were you not so dear to me, my deary K, that this would be hitting it off sky high with bWitch? But see, I'm nice like that, y'know. I do it because I love you, sweetheart._

_And I can prove it, too._

And below that was the link to a file. Kamui opened it, and his eyes flew open—not that they weren't already, but they widened to such an extent that any sort of "open" before didn't even amount in comparison.

That bi—er…eh hem, that bWitch had sent him pictures of him and Fuuma…last night…while they…did…and then she…how could she…have…when did she…_where_ could…?

"Hey, that's a pretty good picture if it was taken from a cell." Kamui whirled around and yanked the blankets up to his waist. He hadn't even felt or heard Fuuma wake up. The athlete grinned at the surprised look on Kamui's face. "It's a pretty hot photo. Can I have a copy?"

"No," Kamui snapped. He pushed a button and deleted it. "Yuuko does this to me all the time. I have no clue how she even got a picture this…close of us. She never sends out anything that has to do with me that I don't want to. I suppose it's one of the perks of interning for her—besides her obvious brilliance and infamy, it's about the only good thing that she does for me."

"She's good," Fuuma said sincerely, resting his chin on Kamui's shoulder. "You like interning for her—I can tell."

Kamui shrugged.

Fuuma laughed, and tousled the mess of soft hair. The soccer player was silent for a minute—a contemplative quiet almost. Then, "Can we have another go?" He grinned.

Kamui stared. Really. Sometimes he felt as though Fuuma would drive him to an early grave. Most times he didn't know whether he should stab the athlete or tackle him onto the bed. And always did he love the damn bastard.

* * *

_A/N: I like this one. Quite a bit. But that's probably because my squealing over the true awesomeness of KuroFai has died down, and now it's all about the KamuixFuuma. But it's different, because I don't know them as well asn Kuro-tan and Fai because, well, I don't read X. Just stuff gleaned from Wikipedia and of course TRC. So I'm more here for the chemistry that's just obvious whenever you look at a picture of them together--which is hot. And thanks to the theRecorder for giving me the pages for those amazing scenes. I'd have been too lazy to look them up, and this chapter then wouldn't have been on until next Monday. So you can thank her for this update. Oh, and to theRecorder: That scene you heart...yeah, I wanted to marry that scene. _

_And that's all really. Oh, and reviews. Tell me if this one had a special-er place than say, Yuui and Doumeki's, because there's was kind of a more....sex one. This one was a real...I dunno, you probably get what I mean. 0_0. _

_OH, AAAAND, everyone's healthy (more or less) in my grade again, except for my best friend. She was fit as a fiddle when everyone else was in dregs, and now today she was the only one absent. I guess you could say she's always been one to never follow crowds, even when it comes to germs. We were laughing over the irony of it just this evening. _


	6. Deary K and Y

_A/N: This one's....interesting, is all I have to say._

* * *

First Time: Kamui Sumeragi and Yuui Fluorite

"So where is it?" Yuui grinned and bounced up and down on Kamui's thousand-thread Egyptian cotton sheets. Kamui finished locking his door and went to stand across from the pianist. Yuui tipped his head up so their eyes would meet. This one really was quite fine. "Where do you keep it?"

"Over there," Kamui gestured toward the wall—the entire room was painted blood red—behind his mirror. "I had to recruit some builders to put the safe inside the wall, and somehow find a way for me to be able to open it seamlessly. My cousin helped me here and there. He owns a construction firm so he knows some things." Kamui smiled curiously, and cocked his head to one side, as though he were calculating Yuui. "How come you want some anyway? The perfect little pair of Fluorite twins that all the teachers absolutely _adore_…one of them isn't so nice?"

Yuui laughed, letting his head hang back and then coming back forward so quickly that his hair flopped over his eyes. "I'm plenty nice," he smirked. "I just…want some weed. Is that bad?" He loosened the tie of their middle school uniform and smiled again—mainly because he caught Kamui's clear dark grey (or blue, since it was impossible to tell) eyes flash to his milky white throat once the tie was loose enough to reveal it.

"No, not bad at all." Kamui turned around and faced the wall that supposedly hid the green treasure. He stared carefully for a moment at the light switches and then skimmed his fingers over the tiny bolts that held the switches in place—he pressed in the middle one. The whole white light switch board thingy slid to the left, revealing the kind of sensory detector Yuui had only ever seen in clichéd spy movies. Kamui placed his hand in the main space, and then bent slightly to scan his eye, and _then _he plucked out a strand of dark hair and placed it on the same space he'd put his palm against. The hair disappeared, and the light switch's board covered it again.

Yuui watched intently as Kamui stepped back one pace, and the entire wall—the _entire wall_—opened right at the center, and the two halves split open, retreating to opposing sides. Now, where the wall used to be was pure stainless steel, and at the exact center was a small square with a lock—an embedded safe door. Kamui put in the combination to the apparently perfectly ordinary safe, and swung open the miniature door. He took out a tiny bag of the thick green weed, and shut the door back in. The second the safe clicked into place, the walls came and closed in by themselves. Kamui turned, and smiled like a magician who'd just finished his feat.

The musician clapped accordingly, making Kamui quietly laugh, tossing the small plastic bag onto Yuui's lap. "There you are." He sat down beside Yuui and spread his hands out just as Yuui had done.

"How much?" Yuui asked, turning his head to face Kamui.

The writer smiled. "No charge."

Yuui knew that look. He knew that smile. So far, it was his favorite expression from Kamui. "Are you sure? You really don't need any money or anything for this?" He held up the bag of weed.

Kamui shook his head. "Do you need me to teach you how, though? You told me at Rondart's party that you did. I've got some of the stuff to make a joint still here. My parents are jet setting, and Subaru won't be home for at least another two hours."

"Sure. Teach me." Yuui leaned forward slightly.

Kamui stood up to pick around within the contents of one of his drawers at his desk, and returned with little square white pieces of paper and a silver Zippo. He sat back down beside Yuui and took the bag of weed. "It's not hard. You just have to be careful," he said quietly. His nimble fingers pinched out an infinitesimal amount of weed and rolled it into a neat, cylindrical joint with the white paper. He handed it over to Yuui, who placed it within his lips. Kamui laughed, and fired the end with the lighter.

Yuui leaned back, his head going all the way until his hair hung straight toward the bed, sliding off of his forehead. He watched the smoke billow from his mouth and upward toward the ceiling. "It's good," Yuui said, coughing just the slightest—he knew it took getting use to. "You know what else I heard about you?"

Kamui's head tilted at a soft angle and he lay on his side, nearly touching Yuui and watching the pianist with a heated kind of intent. "What?"

"That you've even got MDA. That true?"

The writer smiled childishly, and Yuui knew that it was indeed true. "I don't use it myself that often, if I can help it," Kamui said. "Only for parties and things, but most of our classmates are still kindergartners mentally, so if they even try it, they'll probably end up killing themselves because they won't know how to do it. I just give it out, for the most part. The woman who sells me the weed gave me a few bags of MDA every time for free." He smiled again. "She says it's because I'm so adorable."

"Did you do her yet?" Yuui glanced at him.

"Yeah. She's hot—really hot. I think she says she writes for some magazine or something," Kamui shrugged. "She never told me her name, so I can't look her up—which is probably why she hasn't told me. I don't really care, though."

Yuui looked at him strangely and then laughed again. "Of course you wouldn't. She gives you weed and MDA for free. Why _should_ you care what her name is and what she does?"

"It was last year," Kamui said. "At her office—it was almost closing time, and we were the only ones there. It just sort of…happened. It was okay, because she was amazing, but…I don't know."

Yuui's eyes brightened, and he sat up straighter. "What? Did you think it would've been better? I got mine done in sixth grade," he said reminiscently, his eyes misting over…remembering. "Karen Kasumi—I _know_ that overthrows even your weed-distributing-MDA-giving-goddess."

Kamui sighed dramatically. "I know." He took the joint from Yuui's lips and placed it between his own. "So what exactly were you doing with Shizuka Doumeki? I saw you two disappear sometime before Rondart did the toast and everyone ate dinner—though most everyone didn't eat that much since it was hot as hell."

"Did you see us reappear?" Yuui flashed a grin, and opened his mouth for Kamui to place the joint back in.

"Can't say I did."

"Shame," Yuui chuckled. "You should've followed us."

"Why?"

There was a steely glint in Yuui's eyes. "I had him get my back done."

Kamui's eyes shot open. "Fuck, you're gay?"

Yuui didn't seem fazed. He merely took another smoke from his joint and shrugged at the writer. Kamui was still staring—in something that Yuui would hazard a guess to be a mixture of awe, slight fear, and maybe even lust. It wasn't too vague about the writer's own sexuality, either. "Well, you knew kind of fast what I meant when I said 'back'."

But a writer was a writer. And once thirteen or fourteen, there isn't much else that could _truly_ surprise a real writer. They had to know characters—and thus, they had to know people. All kinds of people, inside and out, around and about. Kamui's eyes returned to their normal size and he smiled softly. "I suppose I did." He took the joint from Yuui's mouth again and said, "I'll show you something that that woman showed me." Kamui placed the burning end carefully into his own lips, and said, "Open your mouth."

Yuui did as he'd been told, and he could feel smoke being blown into his own. It was the same as if he'd smoked by himself, but somehow…it was just much more…much more…well…

Sexy.

Kamui removed the joint from his mouth and then handed it back to Yuui. The writer smiled at the musician's slight questioning face. "It's called shotgun. It's fun, isn't it? A bit dangerous at first, but you've got to know how to hold it with your teeth. Takes a bit of practice."

"I see." Yuui's eyes darted to Kamui swiftly. "So you're a writer? What do you write? Any books published? Worldwide sensations?"

"I'm good," Kamui said simply. "We'll see."

"Can I read something you wrote?"

"Maybe." Kamui's line of sight slid back to meet Yuui. "Maybe." He gazed at Yuui until the pianist took the joint from his mouth. The musician held the gaze—kept it connected—and ran his finger along Kamui's lips, parting them slightly and inserting the joint. Yuui waited for Kamui to inhale, and then pulled it out gently for him, watching the smoke fall up from the writer's mouth. "You know," Kamui murmured, "I haven't gotten my back done yet—at all."

Yuui smiled, holding up the joint between their faces. "Well, I still owe you, after all." He pulled the joint down, and pinched the burning end between his fingers, damping it out. "Do you have some…?"

"In my drawer." Kamui raised his face, and Yuui leaned forward. The slim hands held one another's faces—faces beautiful enough to match Botticelli angels—and their lips, slightly and softly swollen from the joint, met almost violently. It was strange, since…both of them were such delicate-appearing boys, any woman or any other man would treat them like glass, but because they were doing this with another of their kind, they knew that delicacy wasn't necessarily fragility.

They were of the same sort…they thought alike…they lived alike. Their minds were alike, and their hearts were alike. Of course, because of the sameness, it was impossible for either of them to love the other romantically. One couldn't fall in love with someone who was the _same_. It wouldn't be interesting. There was nothing to fall in love with. It would be like Narcissus, falling in love with his reflection.

But this was a good thing. They couldn't fall in love with each other, meaning they'd never hurt each other—coming to the conclusion that, yes, indeed, they'd make the _best_ of friends. The truest and most loyal. Unwavering and forever there.

"Does it hurt?" Yuui whispered huskily, his hands roaming across the baby perfect skin of Kamui's back. Any onlooker would have a simple slight to behold—pale silk against more pale silk; light strands with dark; bold sky with stormy blue clouds.

"Not much." Kamui's body rocked at the same pace Yuui's did. Kamui was a writer—it was what he did, it was what he loved, and it was what he was good at. He'd only ever tried—attempted with frustration—to write a sex scene. He knew he wouldn't be able to write a love scene until he actually made love himself, but he'd at least hoped a sex scene would've been achievable since he'd already done the deed with that woman.

But apparently not. Apparently, it wasn't enough to perform the act with anyone—even if it was just meant to be physical. The physical had to _work_—it had to be hot, and it had to be fire that burned you from the inside out, throughout your entire body, and throughout your partner's. You had to be able to feel it _leak_ from your fingertips, from every part of your body and into your partners and vice versa.

And maybe, Kamui thought during the moment before his mind went completely blank and was rendered incapable of all though, maybe Yuui Fluorite and this little experience would be just the remedy to his writer's block in that particular field. After all, even though he certainly couldn't ever love the pianist, didn't exactly mean that they couldn't be friends.

And friends could do fun activities--just like they were doing now. Right?

* * *

_A/N: So yeah...Kamui's first time ever was when he was in seventh grade with Yuuko, and his first real time was with Yuui (Yuui was on top, just in case you didn't catch that) in eighth grade. Yuui was coming over because in the chapter with his and Doumeki's time together during Kyle's party, he mentioned wanting to have Kamui teach him how to do weed. And MDA is a sort of ecstasy hallucinogen that's used a lot in Skins (a british drama that's become my main TV thing these days aside from gossip girl). MDA is sniffed--it's a white sort of powder. But somehow to me, weed is sexier because it's smoked and you can do hot things like shotgunning, so I just think that weed is more Kamui's drug--I just can't imagine him sniffing powder up his nose that much, can you? I dunno, I s'pose I should probably lay off the TV if I start to compare the sexiness of DRUGS. Geez, I wonder if I'll turn out all right in life? 0_0_

_Well, whatever. We're writers. We're allowed our eccentricities. _

_Oh, and next chapter will probably start the SubaruxSeishiro stuff. So prepare to lose a lot of hair--'cause we'll all be pulling it out: me while i'm writing it, and you while you're reading it. _


	7. S and the Maestro

_A/N: And so it begins. The couple that completely defines GG. (Personally, I designed Subaru and Seishiro in this universe to symbolize Blair and Chuck.)_

* * *

First Encounter: Subaru Sumeragi and Seishiro Sakurazuka

Kamui glared at the window, and then back at his brother. "He's here, _again_. When are we allowed to officially register him as an actual stalker? Moreover, when will you _let_ me, Subaru?" The writer rolled his eyes to the ceiling and then back to his book. The study hall windows were large enough so that they could see the entirety of the surrounding fields.

Subaru slid his eyes toward the window—he sat behind Kamui—and then quickly shifted them back to his book before the teacher could call them out as she passed. "He's not here for me," he whispered. "He does have a little brother here, you know. I think he's in sixth grade. He might be coming to pick him up or something. The high schools get out before we do."

"Which is injustice of the greatest sorts, wouldn't you say, boys?" Subaru looked up in time to see Yuui Fluorite tip back his chair from his desk—located at an upper diagonal to Kamui's—and smile brightly, eyes glinting. "We're younger, and we've got less to do. We should be able to appreciate our youth for as long as we can, don't you think?"

As soon as the teacher turned her back to go print more copies of some worksheet, Yuui limberly tossed back his head and—upside-down—kissed Kamui on the lips. The blond boy snapped right side up just in time as the teacher returned, and not before he gave Subaru a galling grin.

The trumpeter sighed, but he had to smile, as he looked on the pair of identical pale blond heads, side-by-side a row up from himself and Kamui. Yuui and Fai Fluorite had only been with them since second grade, but ever since they'd gotten over the ghostly, dazed, angelic thing (which took up until fifth grade), they were the exact flesh definition of an antithesis. Not that he himself and his own brother were anything very much alike, but they weren't as absolutely diverse as Fai and Yuui.

Even now, Subaru observed—Fai was simply and quietly skimming through his textbook (the Fluorites had wits of steel), his long fingers dancing over the words; the soft study only interrupted when Fai looked up to a whispering classmate to laugh or smile in a whisper.

And then, there was Yuui.

Yuui didn't have a book, notebook, binder, homework, or any form of educational activity on his desk at all. All he had on his desk were his dark brown loafers, crossed at the ankle and pointed straight at the ceiling. As for what he was currently using his time for, more or less, it was silently flirting with Kamui or whispering to Fai.

After the teacher had left again, and everyone turned in their seats to talk, Kamui spun all the way around in his chair to face Subaru. "Look out there," Kamui said. "He's staring right at you. If that isn't stalking, I don't know what is." His brother practically jabbed a finger at the glass. "At this point, I don't even care that he knows. It's gone on for like a month."

"It took us a month to notice and figure it out," Subaru injected.

"Who're you looking at?" Yuui bent backwards over the back of his chair once again. Subaru really would rather the pianist not do that for more reasons than one, but the main one being that his brother had told him in great and explicit detail about how limber Yuui was in the activities they did when holed up in Kamui's bedroom. "Hey…that…Fai," Yuui stabbed his brother's shoulder with a pen. "Look out there—at that guy under the cherry blossoms. Isn't he…?"

Fai's eyebrows shot up—at least from where Subaru sat, that was what it appeared like. "That's the student conductor at Fuki—the amazing one. He's so good that he's been sometimes assigned to sub at philharmonics all over the country. He's only a sophomore, too. He's studied like what…all of the wind and brass instruments, and at least three strings? And of course he knows piano. I didn't get his name, though." Fai leaned back slightly to smile at Subaru. "Maybe he likes you."

Yuui raised an eyebrow, going so far as to spin his chair around. "Have you even done it with a girl yet?"

Subaru frowned. "Yes."

"Last year," Kamui said, "he did it with that singer girl from Kuriakiri. The one with short black hair—she has some gianormous dog with her all the time, and I think she's Kusanagi Shiyu's daughter. You know, the police chief."

"Yuzuriha?" Yuui's other eyebrow followed. "That's a good one—kind of lacking with the curves, wouldn't you say, though?" Fai elbowed him. Yuui laughed. "But you're gay, right?"

Kamui smiled. "Oh yeah," he glanced at his brother with a grin. "He definitely is." As those words were said, an auburn-haired boy in the back of the classroom coughed loudly and pointedly, and Subaru determinedly stared out the window, away from Yuui and Fai's matching smiles. The trumpeter could murder his twin later.

But…he had to admit…the boy—he looked more like a young man, really—did indeed look as though his eyes were intended for Subaru. The conductor—if Fai's word was right—had a good-looking face, as most socialites did…but it wasn't just good-looking…the way he arranged his features in that sort of smile…he looked…kind. Gentle. Subaru tilted his head and smiled back discreetly—feeling slightly idiotic, as the windows were probably tainted, but the conductor's smile widened into a light grin.

Subaru felt something jolt in his chest.

* * *

School was dismissed. They were let out into the courtyard, but in order to get to the sidewalk where all the Town cars and limousines drove by for pick-up, they had to cross the green. The large cherry blossom tree where the conductor always used as an oversized umbrella was directly at the center of the green, meaning that if Subaru were to approach him, it'd be impossible for Kamui, Fai, and Yuui not to see him doing so.

But the curiosity was killing him, and he didn't know if it was drive or impulse that brought him swerving from the pathway toward the sidewalks, instead guiding him to this young man. "Good afternoon," he said, "Subaru Sumeragi." He smiled.

"I should probably ask how you know that, but since you're supposed to be my stalker, it's a bit redundant, right?" Subaru tentatively smiled back. It was the strangest of things, but it was like Subaru starved for every gesture, every breath this man took, every twist of his lips, every lazy blink of his eyes—more or less, it was as if Subaru depended on this man's whim.

"I suppose," he echoed amusedly. "But how about I tell you mine for now? Seishiro Sakurazuka. You've heard of me."

Subaru's eyebrows shot up. "Modest, much?"

"No, not very," Seishiro said, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. "I'm extremely talented, and if it's fact, I think it's all right to say it as though it is. I don't care much for those who try to downplay themselves, nor can I find the patience to spare for those who exaggerate what they've got and can do."

The trumpeter's eyebrows would've gone higher if they were able. "Oh. So. My car is waiting for me, and my brother will murder me if I don't come. You need to tell me, then, why?"

Seishiro leant down, and allowed his smile to fade soft and slowly. "Your face—your body. Your brother's face, and his body. Your twin friends' faces and their bodies. They're all immensely, utterly perfection, do you know? Beautiful." His finger traced Subaru's cheekbone, from the ear to the jaw line.

Subaru thought he'd probably either die or keel over. Or keel over and then die. "And?" He thought considering this person's otherworldly—since he couldn't decide if this man was from hell or heaven—presence, his own voice was considerably composed.

"Come to my house," Seishiro said, his lips a hairsbreadth away from Subaru's. "I think it would be wonderful if I taught you. Besides, I want to meet you."

Subaru stepped back swiftly, stumbling slightly. Seishiro looked even more amused. "You want my brother and the Fluorite twins to come, too, then?" he repeated, making sure he got the message—and because if he tried to say anything else, it would come out half-witted. And there was something about Seishiro that made you _need_ to impress him—perform for him…no matter what it cost you yourself.

"Them, yes," Seishiro said. And then he leaned down again, so close that it was only instinct that caused Subaru to believe the conductor would kiss him. "But I want you the most."

Seishiro drew away at the same time that a boy—as tall as Subaru, and with twice the muscle—with dark hair the same shade as the sophomore's, only spiked up rather than neatly mussed, and wearing the sixth-grade's uniform came out and began walking alongside the conductor.

Kamui had to literally shake Subaru in order for the trumpeter to regain the ability to walk. "Jesus," Kamui muttered, as he slammed the door of the Town car, and glanced back at his brother. "What's so special about that bastard, anyway?"

* * *

_A/N: HEY. Speaking of fond eighth grade memories (not that I'm one to talk, since I'm still in it), remember how the boys used to always pants each other in gym class? Well, I sure do, because it happened today. It was basically a pantsing spree. Sadly, I couldn't see it, since we were in line to do suicides on the court, and all the guys' lines were over at the other end. And maybe because I'm a midget. BUT, anyway, since I do go to a Catholic school, all the boys were taken out for a lecturing since it's apparently considered sexual harrassment and if someone didn't confess, then they'd be sent to the head priest over at our parish. But really, none of them got into any serious trouble, I think. And for the rest of gym, we girls got to play Free Willy. Which is like tag. _

_This is almost as funny as the period back in seventh grade when all the boys made slingshots out of rubber bands and paperclips, and we all had to start using hardcover textbooks as shields. Well, that was funny until our spanish teacher (whom we all hate) got accidentally hit--to be fair, it was one of my guy friends who hit her, and he wasn't aiming at HER. But that was awesome, because all the guys got in trouble and were gathered for a lecture (again) and we girls got study hall. I finished all my homework for the next two days that day. _

_Ah. These boys are getting rid of their virginity and smoking weed, and the ones in my class are shooting paperclips at the back of girl's skirts and pulling each other's pants down. How lovely. _


	8. Double K

First Time: Kurogane You-ou and Kamui Sumeragi

Kurogane wasn't gay. He wasn't gay. He just wasn't. He by no means had ever liked a _guy_, he by no means _would_ ever like a _guy_, and he by no means liked a _guy_ now. It was just impossible—unfathomable, incomprehensible, slightly repulsive, unnatural, weird, strange, vomitous (if that was a word), and therefore, Kurogane could not be gay. So HA.

And no, of course Kurogane was not being immature. He was in sixth grade, damn it, which meant that he was old enough to sniff MDA, do weed, and pot, and crystal. At least a few of his classmates had already started experimenting. Most of it was leaking through the stoic-faced, stone-eyed, flat-voiced Shizuka Doumeki from the sixth grade next door. There'd been more than one story that he had an eighth grader "friend", and that he'd actually done this certain eighth grader. There were further rumors that the eighth grader was a boy.

Well. Kurogane wasn't surprised. Doumeki had always radiated a certain sense of…homo-ness, anyhow. Well. Actually. Kurogane wasn't surprised because he was more or less relieved that Doumeki at least had a sexual orientation. He'd been starting to suspect that Doumeki wasn't even human and was some sort of otherworldly being sent from the outer recesses of the universe to study humans and then destroy the earth, and possibly bring hostages. Which, by the way, would then be the cue for Kurogane to completely kick Doumeki's ass before that could happen.

Anyway.

And just because Kurogane had been comparing the extremely-firm-appearing backsides of two young university-attending socialites (who were men) during the past hour of the Christmas Gala certainly did not mean he was gay, either. Because really, Kurogane had also considered four different women's…ah, décolletage. One of them being his ex-nanny.

But, just…say, _hypothetically_, if Kurogane _were_ gay, then…would he be the top or the bottom? Or maybe he could be versatile and do either one when the situation arose?

Not that, y'know, it would. Because he was so not gay.

"Kurogane? Sweetheart?"

He jerked, and shuddered a bit and blinked at his mother's face. "Yeah? What?" She seemed to laugh silently at his expression, but she smiled at him all the same, adjusting a lock of dark hair against décolletage sultrier than what he'd been ogling.

"You know how your father told you of he helped the Sumeragi Corporation with that one arson incident? Well, Mr. and Mrs. Sumeragi have twin sons around your age, and I think it'd be lovely if you at least met them. They're this way, and oh, look, your father's already talking with the Sumeragi." Without further ado, his mother grabbed hold—rather tightly—of his arm and began to pull him toward where his father stood near the chocolate fountain and coconut snowmen.

Kurogane had seen Mr. and Mrs. Sumeragi around more than once—they'd been over for tea and conversations and scones and more conversation and other crap that threatened to send Kurogane into a coma. But he'd only seen their sons around school. And, yes, he knew that they were both gay—infamously so. In fact, the one with the longer-ish hair, the hair that teased in and out and over and under, he was the one that everyone in sixth grade suspected was Doumeki's "friend".

Both twins were as tall as Kurogane—or rather, Kurogane was as tall as they were, since he was younger—but Kurogane had about twice the amount of muscle. The one on the left—the one that looked less bitchy—gave a small smile at Kurogane and once his father prodded him, he said, "Hi."

Kurogane didn't speak even when his own father jabbed him. He just continued to stare at the twins warily—the same stare he'd probably give to a leper. His father sighed, and smiled wearily at the twins. "And if he'd open his mouth, this is Kurogane. You guys are in what…?"

"Eighth," the one on the right—Doumeki's supposed "friend"—said haughtily. "Your son is in sixth, right?"

Kurogane scowled. "Your son"—the way the dolt said it, made it sound as if he thought he himself was an adult, and therefore not of equal status with Kurogane. "Yeah, I'm in sixth. So your point?" He had to glance around to realize that his parents, and the twins' were both gone—probably off to complete their socializing round around the ballroom.

"I'm Kamui," the bitch said, smiling for some odd, insane reason. He glanced at his twin. "You can go now, Subaru." Subaru smiled a last time at Kurogane and then drifted off just like their parents—Kurogane looked long enough to see that the eighth grader went immediately to a young man with dark hair and gentle eyes, a cherry blossom pinned to his suit.

"Why would you think I care?" Kurogane snorted. He really hated to admit it, but this kid was rather hot. If Doumeki truly had done him, it wouldn't have been all that bad of a pick. And maybe he was a teensy bit mesmerized as he watched Kamui tilt his head aside, the strands falling further into waywardness over his eyes and around his face.

"I never said I did." Kamui raised his eyebrows. He turned to the right and leaned at the same time, taking a mini biscotti from the long table of sweets offered for use to stick into the chocolate fountain. Kurogane's train of furious thought swerved off the track rather violently as Kamui held the biscotti beneath the rush of liquid chocolate and then slipped it between his perfect, pink parted lips. And Kurogane vaguely felt that same train capsize off the cliff completely when Kamui's tongue glided out to softly and carefully eradicate the remaining chocolate. Then, probably just for the heck of torturing Kurogane further, Kamui began to suckle on the hard tip of the remaining biscotti. "Yes?"

Now, fuck on. This was just freaking _unfair_.

"Did you…" Kurogane scowled to gather whatever composure he had left—for him, scowling was sort of like a team chant to a downtrodden team. It gave him some rallying effect. "Did you fuck Shizuka Doumeki?"

"You mean did he fuck me?" Kamui lowered his eyelids and arched his eyebrows. He tossed the used piece of biscotti casually into the glass bowl (to Kurogane, it looked like a vat) of whipped, vanilla gateau, where it sank like a rock. Kurogane knew he should probably get someone to remove that before one of the socialites found a piece of bitten biscotti in their cup of gateau, but he really would rather that biscotti remain in there. It was more fun that way.

"So he did?" It was clear in Kurogane's sensible mind that he shouldn't be speaking to this boy with a tone that gave off the impression that he approved of his actions—because Kurogane in no way did. But for some inexplicable reason…Kurogane…liked what this kid (c'mon, he was more or less precisely Kurogane's height) emanated. Danger. Risk. He knew that this boy—this boy two years older than him, but with an appearance like well…a first grade boy, a very pretty boy—this boy had somehow managed to find out a way to turn leading the life of a socialite with its standards and unspoken protocol…into something exciting. Something…that perhaps even fringed deathly.

Kamui's mouth half-smiled at Kurogane. He gestured to the left. "Let's go somewhere…quieter to talk, maybe? You obviously have some things to ask me…and…maybe I've got some answers."

Kurogane wouldn't have been able to stop his feet from moving even if he'd nailed them in place with steak knives.

The "quiet place to talk" that Kamui had so generously suggested was, as Kurogane now knew, the men's lounge. Seconds after they both went through the doorway, Kamui had locked the door and put on a great show of making sure that the place was empty. The air was almost completely permeated with the scent of sweet cigars—as sweet as a cigar could be—and oddly enough, perfume. But, Kurogane was old _enough_ to know that just because only men were supposedly allowed in the men's lounge, didn't mean there were some young socialites who thought to bend the rules and invite their lady friends.

There was one large, slightly dusky, mirror in the main room of the lounge, and smaller rooms pushing out; these areas were filled with leather armchairs, and just the assortment of furniture you'd expect to see in a men's lounge fixed for socialites.

Kamui plopped down on a mahogany ottoman in the main room and looked up to smile at Kurogane. "So. No. I didn't fuck Doumeki. He looks good, but I don't really like them silent. At least, not that silent. And besides…it's not like we're oblivious to how much you gossip down there in sixth, y'know."

"Then you tell me yourself," Kurogane challenged, folding his arms. "Which ones are rumors and which ones are fact?"

"Q and A." Kamui put up his right leg on his left knee. "Go."

"Are you gay?"

"I'm bi."

"Is your twin gay?"

"Yes."

"Did you really lose it with some girl that's like twenty years older than you?"

Kamui laughed. "She wasn't _that_ much older than me. But yes."

"Do you do pot? And sell MDA?"

"I'm impressed. For sixth graders, that one's spot on."

"Did you seriously hold an orgy at your house with half the eighth grade and a few college kids?"

Kurogane received a sigh from Kamui. "Well," the eighth grader said, "I suppose the winning streak couldn't hold out that long. Where the fuck did you hear that?" But Kamui was smiling. "I wouldn't _touch_ half of my classmates, let alone do it with them."

And because he was suicidal, Kurogane asked, "Would you do me?"

Kamui's eyebrows shot up, and his face lit into a grin. He grabbed hold of the front of Kurogane's waistband and tugged the martial artist down to face level—until the sixth grader was on his knees before Kamui. "Let's see." Kamui curled slender fingers around the nape of Kurogane's neck and kissed him—Kurogane's first kiss. And it was a pretty damn good one, if he could say so himself. Even if…well…wait…why…he was so not gay. This was…just….BLEH.

"Have you ever done it before?" Kamui muted his voice.

Instinct was a strange thing. Kurogane placed his hand on Kamui's thigh, and looked up at the older boy. The martial artist shuffled his fingers, searching at Kamui's crotch, until he found what he'd been looking for and began fingering it experimentally, waiting to see what'd happen.

What happened next, Kurogane found was extremely…rewarding. Kamui's eyes glazed over, and one small hand threaded through Kurogane's hair, gripping so tightly it almost hurt. But to be fair, Kurogane wasn't increasing the speed of his hand; he was teasing Kamui. Maybe it wasn't all that intentional, but he wanted to see how far he could push this boy—this boy, two years older than him and worshipped by all of his classmates.

As Kurogane sensed the resistance drain from Kamui, he straightened up and guided Kamui down onto the ottoman—it was large enough so that their bodies could be completely on it and not touch the floor. Kurogane unbuttoned both their pants briskly, and dug his hand into Kamui's. It was already wet and sticky and hot by the time Kurogane grasped it. Kamui's eyes—the clearest blue-grey—watched Kurogane vaguely. But at the same time, it was like he was observing Kurogane. Waiting to see what he'd do. Waiting to see if Kurogane's performance would amount to his appearance.

Kurogane never refused a challenge—and he never disappointed.

He sure as hell wasn't about to start now.

* * *

Kamui rolled over to his side, and propped his head with an arm. Kurogane tossed the writer his pants as he'd asked, and sat down—still naked, same as the eighth grader—beside Kamui and waited to see what the older boy had to show him. "Here," Kamui pulled out a white stick a little longer than Kurogane's finger, and shaped slightly like a funnel, only without the hollowness. "This is what a pot joint looks like. You wanna try?"

"I don't do drugs." The sentence was built into Kurogane.

"Sure you do." Kamui grinned. "It won't kill you. At first, that is." The writer sat up and slid over until their bare arms and thighs and sides were pressing shoulder-to-shoulder. "By the way, that was bloody brilliant sex."

Kurogane grunted, "First time."

"I know. It was still good."

"For a first time?"

"No. Just good." Kamui touched his lips to Kurogane's shoulder, and then smiled quietly at him. "Now. Try some." He proffered the joint to Kurogane again. "I've got a lighter in my pocket."

Kurogane looked at the boy's face. Thought about the "bloody brilliant" sex—which it so definitely had been. Thought about how boring life had been since he'd turned old enough to be expected to live like a socialite. Thought about how this kid must've lived a mad exciting life, and how his being a socialite just gave him more opportunities to do so. Thought about how he could do the same. "No. Don't want any."

Kamui's eyebrows shot up. They remained sky high for quite a while, too. But he smiled. Eventually. "You're smart." Kamui lifted his pants up and searched around in the pockets, retrieving a silver Zippo. He lighted the end of the joint and placed the tip between his lips.

"Then how come you're…?"

Kamui looked at the ceiling, smiled at it, and then looked back to Kurogane. "I'm a writer. And I'm a socialite. I don't have to be smart. Just insanely rich. And richly insane."

Kurogane stared at him for a bit. He scowled. "You're crazy."

"Well. That's a synonym for insane, isn't it?"

The only way Kurogane could comfort himself about his night was with the fact that at the very least, he'd lost his virginity. It didn't really matter if the person he gave it to was mad-hatter insane, right?

Oh. And writers? Avoid them.

* * *

_A/N: Kuro-tan's avoiding me. Anyhoo, I suppose it's in accordance with the whole exclusive private schools thing, but today, while we were waiting to be let in to the humongous church for vocations mass (we got to miss school, because we're eighth graders and it's a Confirmation thing), we were watching the other eighth graders from the diocese, and their uniforms and stuff, and we were basically like, "Pfft. We're so much better." And that their uniforms made us feel better about ourselves. So....yeah. We're not as holy as we probably should be......BUT, we're young. We'll change.......hopefully. Well, on the bright side, at least we're not smoking pot. ANd as far as I know, we've all still got our cherries. Again, as far as i've heard we are. _


	9. S and the Maestro Part II

First Kiss: Subaru Sumeragi and Seishiro Sakurazuka

"No," Kamui said definitely, folding his arms, and taking a long suck of his joint. Beside him, Yuui wagged his fingers eagerly, and the writer passed the white stick to the pianist. Fai was lying flat on his back on the stone border all three of them sat on, his head lying on his twin's lap. Yuui blew smoke lightly down, and Fai parted his lips to inhale it.

Subaru was standing before them, and they were watching him like his own personal panel of judges. Around them, the sixth and seventh graders milled around—a few of the sixths playing tag and so forth. A fair amount of girls from all three grades—all grouped together—were watching them, and talking, laughing to each other—about them, clearly. There were some early bloomers who'd already realized it at this point, but most of the time, at their age, all girls loved the pretty, clean boys who always smelled like fresh Axe and were gentle, and sweet, and kind (in appearance, at least), and shooed away the boys, who carried at least one kind of sports ball wherever they went, wore nothing but jerseys, basketball and track shorts, and missed a shower or two at least twice a week. Most girls shut their doors in those types of boys' faces whenever they came for some good-old fashioned, not so innocent courtin'—or usually just to hit on them—until later on in life when they'd realize that these guys were straight, and pretty boys weren't.

Tough luck for some.

However, Subaru had something far more stressing than the wars between hormonal straight girls and hormonal straight boys. He was hoping that he'd at least get an agreement from his brother, even though that was what'd be considered as hoping against hope. He could only pray that Yuui and Fai would be more supportive. He looked to the pianist, waiting.

Yuui was more than occupied shotgunning his brother—although, lately, and ever since he'd finally got the hang of it without burning himself, Yuui had been shotgunning everything that had a mouth. He straightened, and handed the joint back to Kamui. As the musician slowly blew smoke at Subaru's direction, he smiled catlike. Yuui leaned back on his hands and regarded the trumpeter. "Mm…I say no."

"Why?" Subaru stared, hands outstretched blankly. "You don't give a crap about what anyone does unless they're doing you. And as you've told me about three thousand times before, you especially don't give a crap about me and what I do—or who I do."

One pale eyebrow went up, and Yuui shrugged, smiling blithely. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just not in the mood to say 'yes'. Who knows, maybe, if you ask me on another day, then I would've said yes. But now, we'll never know." Yuui said the last bit in mockingly secretive tones, finishing the performance with a flourished finger to his lips.

Subaru's lips tightened into a line. At times Yuui could be civil, but more than less, at best he was overbearing, and at worst he was the most infuriatingly, stifling bastard you'd ever meet. He looked to Fai; the violinist had had great shadows beneath his eyes for the better part of the last two weeks. Fai saw Subaru's eyes searching at him, and he smiled serenely up at the trumpeter. Subaru was no writer like this brother, but it was easy still for him to decipher the way Yuui's body was took stance around Fai—it wasn't a relaxed pose; it was guarded and sharp, protective. It was just disguised not to seem that way. "What's _your_ answer?"

Like a mirror image of his brother, Fai created the precise expression Yuui had worn while giving Subaru his response. Everything was the same, down to the last curve of his eyebrow, and part of his lips. His eyes closed up into that perfectly faux smile of delight. "Yes."

Kamui's head spun around toward Fai. "Why?"

Fai's eyes flickered daringly to his brother. "Maybe I'm just in the mood to say 'yes'. It's lucky that you asked today—maybe on some other day I would've said no. Who knows?" He grinned at Subaru.

Subaru knew he should've been thanking Fai on his knees, but he couldn't resist frowning, and repeating Kamui's same question. "But…why would you…?"

Fai turned his head in Yuui's lap, and looked straight and deep into Subaru's eyes. "He likes you. You like him. You should go ahead and see how much he likes you." He stretched leisurely and sat up, keeping one elbow propped up on the edge of his twin's shoulder; Yuui laid his head against Fai's arm.

Kamui sighed. "Well, I suppose that overrides what Yuui and I say. Go ahead to his house, I guess. Or let him pick you up after school today, or whatever. But seriously, Subaru, he's trouble, and you know it. I know it. Yuui knows it, and Fai knows it. You can see it in his eyes—he's dangerous."

"You know what they say," Yuui said absentmindedly, his eyes drifting off to canvass the body of a seventh grade girl whose skirt was rising higher with every jumping movement she made as she laughed with her friends. "Even the most evil of people are angels to the ones they love. If and only when they truly love them, of course."  
"And how're we supposed to know if Seishiro really does love Subaru?" Fai asked his brother, poking him in the side to draw his attention away from the girl. "And I wouldn't do her if I were you—I heard she's about as tight as a shoelace." Yuui's face fell comically.

"We can't," Kamui responded flatly. He looked to Subaru. "You can't. You won't know, and you won't know until he pledges his eternal love for you or breaks your heart, mutilating it into a thousand pieces. Guys like Seishiro don't do anything halfway—they're all about the extremes."

Subaru had to laugh sarcastically. "I'm not going to marry him—I'm just going to his house, alone, without the company of you three to mortify me. Last time," he glanced to Yuui, "the first time we went, _you_ made out with him. Fai hit on him, and then _you_"—he looked at his brother pointedly, "stripped for him."

Kamui snorted and looked away haughtily. "It was an innocent striptease. It wasn't like I was implying that he should screw me into the kitchen wall or anything."

"You did it while standing on the desk in his father's study, and you used the globe and his father's favorite solid gold, engraved fountain pen as 'toys' to assist you. And you were drunk. And stoned," Fai interjected.

Yuui smiled. "But it was unbelievably hot, so points for that."

"Thank you." Kamui glared at Subaru. "And by the way, I _did_ pay for the damage on that globe; I sent the check to him last week. Besides, I read it up—it's not even a good maker. You could get one of those at a Wal-Mart."

"Oh. Well, then," Subaru said, sarcasm furthering, "That makes everything better, doesn't it?" Kamui shrugged and held out his hand at Fai's face, silently demanding the joint back. Fai took a puff and blew it in the writer's face for good, teasing measure, before returning it.

The violinist played with his brother's hair for a bit, before smiling calmly at Subaru. "Why don't you just go? It's not like these two are going to lock you in a cellar if you try. They're just stating their opinions. He's always here to pick up his brother. You should go with him today. Tell us about it tomorrow."

Kamui sighed. "You're such an awful influence."

Yuui licked his lips, almost predatorily as the girl he'd been eyeing met glances with him, and she crossed her arms—more or less gathering the ample amount of…development she possessed and seemingly shoving it in the pianist's face. Fai's eyebrow went up as his line of sight followed his brother's eyes. "How much?" Yuui murmured to his brother.

"For the shoelace?" Fai tipped his head back and forth, his hair swaying with the motion. "I'd say three grand. I need the money to get myself those new strings that just came out—the ones that you only need pegs for."

"Fine by me," Yuui stood up, brushing the dust from the joint from his pants and shirt. He smiled fairly. "I need three grand to get new leather for my piano seat, and for the new baby grand edition." He winked at the Sumeragi twins, kissed his brother lightly on the lips, and swaggered toward the girl.

They watched him for a while, as Yuui smiled down at the girl, greeting her and flirting with her. Subaru had lived with a writer his entire life, and he'd helped Kamui with enough pieces of writing—and had literary classics shoved down his throat by the chapter—to know how to appreciate a true master at his true skill and art. Yuui cut through the girl like a finely sharpened katana. Perfect in precision, and beautiful even when attacking. Even from the distance they were at, Subaru could see the girl's eyes shine with complete defenseless enamor at the pianist. Yuui knew the exact way, and amount to touch a girl so that she wouldn't feel threatened or suffocated, but that—no matter how old—she'd always want him. It also helped that he was a year older than her.

And the slight mist of unintentional and subconscious envy in her friends' eyes wrapped up the entire package. He was carting her off on his right arm right toward the back of the school—where the supply closets were—and giving them a mocking salute as his other arm drifted away from the small of her back, and down to a more…desirable area. And then up her skirt.

Fai laughed into the silence—touched only by the background noise from the other students. He put his hands behind his head and mimicked Yuui's earlier position, only this time his own head was in Kamui's lap. "I'm thinking I'll have our driver drop us off by the store next Tuesday," the violinist said dreamily, pupils tracing the smoke that drifted from Kamui's lips. "That way I'd have enough time before the Saturday concert to get my new strings tuned, learn how to do it myself, and get used to the feel. What do you think?"

"I think Yuui will come back pissed off and horny as hell, and then he'll be up for a three-hour round with me. Hopefully by then, the fifth grade book club will have been finished, and we can have the go in their empty classroom—they have the sturdiest desks, and their teacher usually cleans out her desk. It's so tiring to have to put everything back afterward." Absentmindedly, Kamui stroked Fai's cheek with the back of his hand.

Subaru's eyes flickered to the side of the green, and he looked at his brother. "So she really is that loose? What, is she a slut or something?" His eyebrows scrunched briefly when Fai—and his everlasting smile—stiffened.

Kamui shook his head. The writer's fingers seemed to tease Fai's hair, as though willing the abrupt reaction to be soothed away. "No. As far as I know, she's just done it once. I don't know if she's loose—but whatever I heard, she's basically just not that good. One big turn-off. And I do know that Yuui gets extremely pissed when he's horny and not getting any. He seriously does have the pickiest appetite in the world."

The trumpeter shifted his weight. "And you can satisfy his appetite? Every time?"

Kamui smiled down at Fai, and then back up to his brother. His one eyebrow arched, and he tilted his head to the side. "Every. Single. Time," he said softly. Fai chuckled. Subaru regretted even challenging his brother with that question. But it'd served its purpose—a distraction.

"So, it seems we're missing one of our party today?"

Kamui's eyes narrowed into slits. Seishiro continued to smile brightly at the boys, his hands coolly in his pockets. He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at Subaru. The trumpeter probably would've offered an apologetic smile—or turned bright red—if Fai hadn't swung his arms around the conductor. "You snuck up on us. Unfair."

Seishiro's arm wrapped around Fai's deathly slender waist and his fingers settled on the eighth grader's waistband. Kamui's eyes weren't even slits anymore—they were nearly nonexistent, and somehow, they still managed to glare daggers at the sophomore. "You were all distracted—it wasn't a hard task." Subaru thought that he was about to kiss Fai—their faces were that close apart.

"Of course it wasn't," Kamui said tersely. "What do you need?"

"Nothing," Seishiro said simply, releasing Fai.

"Then could you leave?"

"You haven't asked me if I wanted anything."

Kamui looked like he'd rather have someone bludgeon him with a club. "What do you want?"

Subaru nearly fell backward with the force that Seishiro attacked him at. It wasn't even a kiss that should be legal as a first kiss. It was heavy, it was messy, and it was filled with tongue. And it was pretty hot. Seishiro pulled away with a loud smacking sound, his eyes more or less raping Subaru right there. He smiled serenely, tousled the trumpeter's hair, winked at an infuriated Kamui, and went off to haul his younger brother from the sixth grade socer game to the limo.

Kamui was still shaking with anger, Fai was still blinking bemusedly, and Subaru was still wondering if his boner was noticeable, when Yuui groused toward them from behind the school, shirt open and hickeys evident. The pianist grabbed his brother's hand and slapped a wad of cash into it. "Happy?"

But it was Subaru who answered, "Extremely."

* * *

_A/N: Their relationship is still happy during the early, early, early stages. But you can already see hints of uh-oh-angstiness-coming-on, from the way Seishiro was all over Fai. Next chapter is important to something that happens in Compelled--or something that WILL happen--so perk your ears up. Or eyes, or....yeah. :D_


	10. Deary K and the Maestro

First Time: Kamui Sumeragi and Seishiro Sakurazuka

There were many facts of truth in this world. And one of the easiest facts of utter truth to memorize was the fact that socialites loved to party. Loved it. It was in their blood. Because in case you couldn't spell, just as there was an "I" in "win", there was a "social" in "socialites". Therefore, socialites loved to party. It was simply in their blood. They were born with it.

It could also be considered fact that socialites party hard, and socialites party best. Partying was partying. Anyone could party. But when a socialite partied, it became an art. An art that took skill. An art that was more instinct than intention.

But there was a reason why socialites partied hard and best. First, what _was_ partying? What was the definition? Not the dictionary definition, but the definition that you would give to someone who asked you what partying meant to you—what you had to mean to party. Would it be to lose all inhibition? To let go of all thought and just…escape? If that were the definition…then wouldn't it make the most sense that socialites were the best at it?

Any person could only take so much stifling before suffocating. The need to escape was something all humans possessed. Even when inebriated, there resided something that was full of truth and that truth filled. And whatever that was, if it wasn't coming out regularly, it would fight its way out—however it could and without restraint. After all, truth was just another instinct like lust or anger, that when held back could be prevented.

But just as alcohol weakens the mind and body, it also weakens the restraint to hold back lust. To hold back anger. And to hold back truth.

* * *

Bodies. Flesh. Skin. Heat. It was hot. Warm…yes, that was it. It wasn't hot. It was just warm. Good warm? Bad warm? Didn't know. It was just…warm…hot. Didn't want to decide. Music. Sweat. Lights—high, keening sounds, and colored, bright lights. Almost too bright. Not good. The floor shook. Vibrated. From the music? Maybe. Didn't care.

Smoke. Smoke was drifting from his mouth. That was good. Thirsty. Needed a drink. Ah, a drink. There on the table. A drink. Good. Tasted good…cold…not cold enough…but okay. It would do. More smoke. Wait…eyes? Were they eyes? For who…? For him? Beautiful eyes…but…not…no. Not his eyes. Not for him. Beautiful eyes—dangerous eyes. They were dangerous. Stay away. Didn't want them. Hated them. Hurtful eyes.

Keep away. Subaru. They were Subaru's eyes. For Subaru—belonged to Subaru. No. Keep away. Had to keep Subaru away. Not for him. For Subaru. Should he? No. Wanted to? No. He should. Needed to. For Subaru. Too hot. Dangerous. Eyes. Not for Subaru. Never. Keep away. _Go away_. Why? _Don't hurt him_. Not Subaru. Stop. Go away. Had to go away—had to run.

Dangerous eyes. They were coming. Closer. Nearer. Hot. Much too hot. Thirsty. More smoke. Thirstier. More smoke…it made him thirstier. The more smoke, the more he drank. Good? No. Wasn't good. Didn't matter. Forget. He wanted to forget. Needed to. Do. Something. Had to. But…what? What could he do…for…Subaru? No. Shouldn't. Would hurt him more. But…did it matter? No. He wanted to. Ah…so hot. _Perfect_.

Lips. Tongue. Saliva. Mouth. Warm. Teeth. There was a thud. A door closing? A click—the door closed, yes? Yes. He heard it. It was the door closing. Still hot—too hot. Hands on his body—his body on fire. Something…anything…needed to go. Go off. Get off. The body…no…him. Clothes. Needed to come off. Take them off. Rip them off. Didn't matter. It had to come off. Now. Hurry. Hands. Grab them—help him. He needed to take the clothes off. Dangerous eyes. Watching him. _Off_. _Clothes_.

Hard. Wet. Hot. Salty…was it salty? A little bit. Couldn't taste. Lick it. Suck it. Hurry. A hand was in his hair…did it feel good? Something…a finger…was it…? In him. Hurt? A bit. Didn't matter. It was fine. Faster. Continue. In his own hands—wetter, slicker, warmer, harder. Gasps. Encouraging shouts. Faster, it said. Kamui, the voice shouted. More? More.

His turn. Spit it out. Your turn, the voice whispered. Sounded excited. Sounded dangerous. Dangerous eyes. More. Didn't matter. Faster. What? Sex. Perfect. Fine. Good. Ow. Oh…it felt good. Hot. So, so, so hot. Almost too hot—but it felt like a good burn. Like the sun—only more intense. Moving…they were moving? They moved. Back and forth. Against the floor…or against the wall? Didn't matter. Wait. Condom? Yes. Stop…? No, don't. Can't.

Almost there. Hurt…pleasure…it felt too good. Too good…don't stop. Didn't stop. Didn't matter. Dangerous. No, wait, don't why, keep going—wait, Subaru…shh stop don't know I need wait he's just go more faster harder more hot too hot I can't just wait more more no don'tplease tellstop staynever_away_--!

* * *

Kamui held his head in his hands. His immature eyes widened at the sight before him. The sight that was so ghastly, it might as well have been the ruins of the earth lain out before him after the apocalypse. It was awful—destruction of everything he'd ever cared about right before him. It was all in ruins. _Ruined_. And he'd ruined it all by himself in one night. One stupid, fucking night.

The door of the club's storeroom was locked. All around there was alcohol and plates and glasses and silverware and things to fix the lights. Everything a good club's storeroom should have, along with toiletries and a few blankets here and there oddly—or not so oddly. Kamui didn't dare look beside him, but he knew he had to. First of all, his clothes were there, and secondly…well…he had some groveling to do.

"Seishiro," Kamui whispered. "Get the fuck up."

The Maestro blinked his eyes sleepily and smiled up at Kamui. "Good morning. How was your night? Sleep well? Good dreams? Nightmares?"

"Yeah. I had this one nightmare where we slept together."

"Lovely." Seishiro sat up slowly and tousled his hair away from his eyes. He propped his elbow against his leg, leaned his cheek on his palm and watched for Kamui's next reaction contentedly. "So…how was I? Fucking brilliant, I hope. Or should I complement you first? I don't know where you learned it, but that was the greatest fellatio I've had in—"

Kamui nearly shouted, "Please, I'm begging you to shut up."

"Is that all?" Seishiro continued pleasantly.

The writer wrapped his hands around himself, fingers digging into the bare, perfect skin. He cast his eyes down. He knew he had to do this, and he knew Seishiro knew as well. He inhaled shakily; it felt like he was almost trembling. "Don't tell Subaru."

"What's the magic word?" Seishiro said in a singsong voice. His eyes mocked Kamui.

Kamui shut his eyes. He opened them unsteadily—his vision blurred. If he cried…just…ugh. The hot film of saltwater stung, and his head already pounded from the extreme hangover. When he moved his head even the slightest bit it felt like he was about to die. "Please. _Please_ don't tell him. I'll do anything. Just…he'll hate me. _He can't hate me_. Please don't tell him. He's my brother—I'm his brother. _Please_."

Seishiro twirled a strand of Kamui's hair between his middle and forefinger. He grinned, his hand slipping down the writer's back. "Kiss me." Kamui gritted his teeth. He knew what asking a favor from Seishiro could be like. But he…he came up, one hand on the side of the conductor's face and only intended to press his lips chastely against the recent high school graduate.

As soon as their lips touched, Seishiro shoved his tongue into Kamui's mouth and chained his hand around the back of Kamui's neck. The conductor's arm trapped itself against the small of the writer's back. He pulled away just enough to say, "Convince him to break-up with me."

Kamui tried to pull away, but Seishiro held firm. "He loves you." Kamui tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, eyebrows coming up at the center into a pleading expression. "He loves you so much. You have no idea."

"It's college—Akamizu. I don't want to spend my next year waiting until Subaru graduates, and I don't want to spend the next three years fucking one person. I'm the Maestro." Seishiro smiled, "I'm a Sacred. And if I break up with him then won't that just prove how he got the best of me? I don't care how you do it—but he listens to you, so convince him. He'd better. You've got this next year to make him. If he doesn't…I'm not responsible for what I do to him after that."

Kamui's mouth hung open. After that…he didn't need to be told to convince his brother to break up with this man. He would've done it of his own volition anyhow. Seishiro…this bastard was…no. Not Subaru. _Please_, not to Subaru. "Fine," he whispered. "I'll try. Just…don't tell. Please."

"I won't." Seishiro smiled.

* * *

_A/N: For Kamui's drunken/stoned/high state, I thought I'd try a new writing style. Again, that was an experiment, so if it failed utterly in all shape, form, and size, let me know and I'll lock it away on my thumb drive 0_0. But if it worked....I may or may not use it again since it was a confusing writing style, and a tough one. Kind of rewarding and fun, but challenging. Anyway, so this happened in the summer vacation between Kamui and Subaru's sophomore and junior year, and Seishiro's high school senior and college freshman years. Meaning, in terms of Intrigue and Compelled, it was last summer vacation. So pretty recent. And if I could put stamps on chapters, I'd label this one with a nice bit "PLOTPOINT!!". And this chapter is probably the entire concept of Impulse put together. It's hot, it's sometimes fun, but you'll probably regret it majorly. The lesson? One who thinks clearly does not get stoned, drunk, high beyond the depths of reason and then sleeps with his brother's bastard of a boyfriend. _

_Another last note, whenever the chapter title says "First Time", it doesn't necessarily mean the first time of the characters, it just means it was their first time together. And more than likely, it's their last. At least, that's what you should hope. (Unless you're Doumeki or Touya). _


	11. Deary K and Captain F Observe

_A/N: If any of you remember, during Intrigue, when Fuuma was remembering how Kamui always used to have a black composition notebook with him during their afternoon stalker/stalkee rendezvous, this is what Kamui was writing into that notebook during those times. _

* * *

Observations: Kamui Sumeragi and Fuuma Sakurazuka

Fucking fantastic. It's just the first week back from winter break and I've already got another stalker. Or "admirer" as Yuui, Fai, or my brother would put it. But, then again, none of them have seen a story featured around an "admirer" and his/her "admiration", have they?

They also probably haven't done a thorough character skeleton and characterization on aforementioned "admirers", and therefore, figured out firsthand how "admirers" aren't as romantic a concept as they're all first painted out to be to little girls. Really, all they are…are stalkers. I mean, think about it, how are they any different?

Oh, and just in case Yuui steals this again, I'm not flattered or turned on in any way by the possibility of having a stalker. I've had them before, and Y knows it. Only difference is that this stalker's younger than me, and he's…well…kind of…hot.

But I'm still pissed.

* * *

I really don't understand why Subaru can possibly love the Maestro—as they've officially and ridiculously now dubbed him. He's the most manipulative, promiscuous, heartless, senseless, prickish, jackass, asshole, uncaring, ungrateful, cruel, evil, abusively sick bastard I've ever met. He's worse than the antagonists I could ever conjure for a story. Hey, maybe, I should use him as a character. I'd get "Best Developed Antagonist" hands down, at least.

Anyway. If we're brothers…twins…identical twins, from the same egg…halves of a whole—

How come he's such an idiot? How can he not see what Sei-fucking-shiro is doing to him? No, screw that. Subaru knows perfectly well. He just refuses to "break-up". Like they were even in a real relationship in the first place.

By the way, my stalker still stalks. It's only during free period, though. He just sits at this one spot—sometimes he stands and bounces a soccer ball around—and stares. Right. At. Me. And that's it. That's all he does. My past stalkers all took photos of me, at the least. He's really familiar in terms of appearance, though, y'know? Though I've no clue why that could possibly be, as I've never seen him, and I know that's a fact. It's also a kind of shame he's a stalker. He's certainly hot enough that you start to wonder why he's using free period to stalk you, rather than getting some.

Ah, well. People all have their own way of thinking. And I suppose this is his. At least if I get raped/molested, it won't be completely unpleasant. Really. He's ridiculously good-looking. Moreover, I think there's something to be said about a guy who could get anyone, but chooses what he wants, rather than settling for what he can get. I honestly don't have the slightest idea as to why he's doing this. He's got the kindest eyes you'll find on someone that gorgeous.

Really.

* * *

It isn't everyday you get a stalker. And every stalker you get will never be as hot as this one. I thought that if I'm going to have someone this perfect apparently stalking me, I might as well take it to my advantage as a writer. So let's see. A list, first, maybe? Then a characterization, I s'pose. If I look at him, will he look at me? In the eye? That does a lot during the character process. But first, I think I'll just go with the feature list. It won't be hard. I'll go top to bottom.

His hair. It's black—nothing special about color. It's more the way his hair is. My own hair's always messy—I make sure it is. And sometimes, I don't even need to do so; staying up all night in front of a computer screen, rolling into bed, and then rolling into clothes without shower in the morning is a writer thing. Subaru's hair is what mine would look like if I got it cut more than once a decade, didn't put in a product that could easily kill four hummingbirds, and slept faithfully.

This freshman's hair is wayward—sticking all directions on his head, but then his bangs just hang there, straight down, as if he ironed them. They fall to his eyes. So that'll be next, I guess: His eyes. He's got wonderful eyes. An odd color, but a lovely one.

They remind me of the color and luster you get after you melt honey. All golden and syrupy and shiningly warm. Usually, I can see his eyes if I peer hard enough, but other times, it's harder. And it's sad that way—he's got such nice eyes. He's a socialite so of course he'll have one of those It-has-to-be-plastically-enhanced-noses-only-it-wasn't.

He has remarkable lips, too. They're half-full (not too full, and not too thin), and he can arrange them into one of the most perfect smiles I've yet to see. It's a smile that can do millions all at once—an all-purpose smile. It's a smirk, a sneer, a chuckle. It's amused, daring, rebellious, challenging, kind, adoring, sad, cheerful, bored, curious…it's everything all at once.

And then. There's his body. His fucking amazing body. Well, I do most always see him with a soccer ball, and he appears immensely good. It's expected that he'd be so…fit, right? Though, I'm sure it's a felony to be that fit. I can't see much through his uniform, but it's obvious that whatever's behind there is pure eye-candy, and whoever gets to eye/eat it will be the luckiest bitch/bastard of the decade.

* * *

This guy has absolutely no shame. Today, just now, I stared at him long and hard enough so that he'd have to notice—which he did. Any normal person/stalker would get somewhat flustered at the least, but he did nothing except grin that infuriating grin that I've come to recognize only total bastards can do. I would know. Seishiro grins like that all the time.

It's sunny today—highly so. And because of that, he brought out sunglasses—they're quite unique. Some hybrid between Austin-Powers teardrop shades, and colonial spectacles. I unexpectedly love them Wonder if he'd ever let me borrow them for a few…?

Wait. Wait, wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait. This guy is my stalker. And I'm pondering on whether he'll lend me his glasses or not? I think I've gotten heatstroke. I need to start bringing a water bottle to class. Very, very, very soon. I'm starting to sound like Yuui, too. Which, by the way, is never a good thing.

Shit. Wow. He's taking off his shirt like all the rest of the Maikeru boys are starting to do. His eyes come back to me, but mine are on his bare shoulders. His chest. Arms. Abs. Neck. Collarbone. I run my tongue over my lips subconsciously…my teeth dig into my lower lip. I can just imagine what it would be like to touch all that fineness. The perfection.

Why is this kid stalking me? He could bag half the town with that body alone. With his body and face, he's got the whole town.

I want him.


	12. A and Y

First Encounters: Ashura Ou and Yuui Fluorite

Ashura was really quite bored. He'd finished his so-called "Art Assignment" about an hour after it was assigned (it'd been assigned a month ago), meaning that he had nothing left to do during study hall, while his classmates were trying to put together something that at least resembled a clay pot. Which would've, y'know, been easier for all of them if they didn't have the due period looming over them in a matter of about two hours.

"What're you doing?" Yuzuriha put her chin in her hand and looked up at him. She smiled up at him, scooting down against the desk. "It looks like you're trying to make a happy face, but it's not working very well. So how about you stop and finish my 'What I think Jack Thornton looks like' drawing for lit class, to put on a real smile on that face?"

"I'm not in your lit class," Ashura said quietly. "We haven't even finished Call of the Wild, yet." He smiled half-heartedly, and mirrors her position, their faces inches apart. "Don't spoil it for me, all right?"

"Jack gets killed by the Native Americans and Buck submits to the call," Yuzuriha said with cheerful prompt. "It's a lovely ending."

"Doesn't sound so."

"I was being sarcastic."

Ashura raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Okay." He looked out the window. Even though he was bored, and there was nothing within a twelve mile radius of the school that would alleviate that boredom, at the very least, if he was let out to sit upon the lush grass and sketch the blooming cherry tree's profile…at least then he wouldn't be bored to _death_. He'd just be normal bored.

Yuzuriha pouted, huffing air right into the artist's face. "You used to be so exciting, you know? All artsy and like, the hottest guy in the grade. What happened? All us girls too plain for a Michelangelo like you? You haven't done me yet. Or Souma. Or Amaterasu. You can't just give up on girls _now_."

He looked at her amusedly. "I can't?"

"No!" She shook her head with gusto. "Absolutely not! I'll show you the wonders of the female body, I assure you. This weekend maybe—I think my parents are going to Singapore. If I'm lucky, I can convince them that I don't need my grandfather to baby-sit me, and you can come over then. Besides, even if you were gay, what guys would you do? All the good ones are straight."

"Really, like who?"

She held up fingers every time she listed a name. "Well, eighth grade guys are out of the question. They're probably all straight. Umm…Touya's definitely straight. Yukito—from the other class, y'know…he might be gay, but I highly doubt it. Touya hates gays, and they're, like, best friends. I remember when we were in kindergarten, I tried to share my stupid animal crackers with Yukito, and Touya totally snapped."

Ashura had to laugh—he had to. Yuzuriha had some kind of inborn talent that enabled her to make anything that might sound ridiculous coming from everyone else sound filled with hilarity through her lips. "It's true!" she insisted defensively at his laughter. "They're like this," she twisted her middle and forefinger together and held them up in front of Ashura's face. "It'd be an awesomeness bromance if it weren't for the fact that Touya's kind of obsessive."

He agreed with her somewhat. In every grade, there would always be a pair of best friends—sometimes more than just one pair—who were known as inseparable. They'd been together forever, and they'd be together forever. The day they broke-up in their quest of best friendship was the day the apocalypse would take place. It was that simple. And Touya and Yukito were that pair of best friends for the seventh grade. At least, they were the male pair. The female pair would be Amaterasu and Souma.

Ashura had never quite been someone who supported the "Best Friends Movement". He wasn't sure that he even supported the "Friends Movement". All he knew was that he didn't really have friends. He had acquaintances, and the occasional stoner buddy—which was were Yuzuriha came in. Soon, though, Ashura was hoping to acquire a lover. He'd heard that they were a mix between a stoner buddy and a friend. At least, the kind of lover Ashura had in mind.

"Well, I think I'll go back to homeroom," he said, after Yuzuriha had stopped spouting steam from her ears. "I'm going to try and see if I can get some of my homework done. And you should probably start on that Jack Thornton drawing. You suck drawing, so…" He shrugged, smiling as she opened her mouth indignantly.

It was study hall period for all of the upper grades, while K-6 were in class. Ashura had always wondered what it'd be like to attend public school. Elementary and then middle. Wouldn't the transition make things more awkward? K-8 was so much easier in his eyes. The entire childhood/preteen shebang, and then onto high school for the next hellhole four years.

He shifted his backpack from one shoulder to the other, and opened the door of his homeroom. He hoped that his teacher wasn't there, otherwise he'd have to explain why he'd come out of study hall twenty minutes early, plus without signing out and taking a pass with him.

Thankfully, when he opened the door, he found that he wouldn't have to do so.

Not very thankfully, the only reason he found that he wouldn't have to do so was because the Kaiyou student who was supposed to have been returning to their school to help the music teacher—who'd broken her leg—with the younger grades for the day, was pushed into the middle row of desks (one of which was Ashura's), and moving over her like some starving wild cat was one of the quite musically talented blue-eyed, blond-haired sixth grade twins. And even though they weren't thoroughly naked, they were decently close to it, and if Ashura didn't know what they were doing from first glance, then he'd be a disgrace to all young, horny socialites.

And as if to add insult to injury, Ashura had apparently come at the same time the boy and the girl did. The sound of the couple climaxing right before Ashura's eyes grated at his ears just a bit—and not quite in a negative way. More like, in the way that had his uniform pants tightening slightly, therefore assuring that he'd have to spend some time in the bathroom before returning for afternoon classes.

It wasn't until they'd both caught their breaths that they finally turned to look toward Ashura, with expressions that were neither ashamed nor sheepish. In fact, they both looked rather amused. "Well," the boy said, smiling as he extricated himself from—and out of—the girl. "Looks like we have an audience, Karen."

Karen blinked prettily, and smiled mildly—almost politely. "Hi, there." She sat up, and tossed back her hair. Ashura watched her pale, neat hands button up her oxford uniform shirt, hike up her sleek black panties, and smooth down her seersucker skirt. "Sorry. Did you need something from your lockers?" She gestured to the back wall where the metal boxes were embedded. "This must be your homeroom."

"That's all right." Ashura returned the unnerving smiles complacently. His eyes canvassed the boy's waifish white body, as he scanned the room for a way to get to the lockers without having to make any close contact with these two. He slighted through the last aisle of desks near the door, all the while watching this alluring boy right himself.

The artist took as long as he could to retrieve his books from his locker and tucking them into his backpack. He heard Karen leave first. It seemed, when he turned around, that the boy was sitting, legs crossed, on top of Ashura's desk, looking through the artist's sketchbook with great interest, and just a bit of mock in his eyes. Ashura calmly walked up to the boy and yanked the pad out of the slender hands. "Thanks."

The boy raised an eyebrow. "Touchy. And not in the good way, mind. I was just looking. You're really good. I think so."

"So do I," Ashura put the sketchbook into his backpack—away and safe from the boy's hands. He looked up at the beautiful face—a face he'd love to draw. And those eyes—such eyes! "What's your name?"

"Why should I tell?" The sixth grader stuck his tongue out and grinned, one finger flying to his head to commence toying with an airy lock of pale golden hair—baby soft and baby fine hair. "I don't know yours."

"You just had sex over my desk. I think I should be allowed your name at the least. And I'm Ashura. Ashura Ou." He couldn't stop watching this boy's body. The way he moved and breathed. The way his eyes flickered to Ashura's face sporadically. The way he just _was_.

"Yuui." The boy smiled. "Fluorite. Yuui Fluorite." He swept a hand across Ashura's cheek. "Ashura. I like that name." His fingers touched the edges of Ashura's dark hair—it was shoulder-length, meaning his mother had already booked him an appointment to get it cut. "You have nice hair, too. You should keep it long. It looks good."

"Why?" Ashura laughed. "It's just black. You're hair's much better. I'd love to draw you. Would you let me? Could I? You can keep the copy if you want—I don't care."

A playful crease appeared between Yuui's eyebrows, and he grinned wider than ever before. "Maybe some other time. Unlike you lucky seventh and eighth bastards, we're still lumped with the babies. Anyway, as we're having this exciting conversation, I'm missing out on a fascinating lecture about dividing fractions and multiplying by the reciprocal." He wagged his eyebrows. "You know, the real adrenaline-pumping stuff."

Ashura laughed again, but his heart couldn't help thudding forward as Yuui stopped when he reached the doorway. The sixth grader turned back and looked at Ashura for the longest time. "When can I see you again?"

The artist smiled. "We'll see." But as Yuui left, Ashura didn't just want to see the boy again. Ashura had to see the boy again. And he would. Some day, somehow, some way, he definitely would. Yuui was perfect—all angels and sunlight. Ashura had never drawn someone perfect. He would soon, though.

Artists were curious things. They were different from writers. Writers took what they see in their minds and mold the pictures into words. They molded others' words into their own. They took what they knew, and painted a picture with those words. But not artists. Artists were different—almost the opposite. Artists took words and molded the words into a picture. They didn't need to translate what they see into words. They put what they see onto the paper directly. Mind, what one sees isn't necessarily what's truly there. Everyone sees everything differently.

And what Ashura saw in Yuui Fluorite was a seraph. An angel. A faerie. A sprite. Perfection impersonated. And perfection was difficult to find—rare to find. Almost impossible. Artists loved beauty. They were attracted by the very essence of it. Rare and wise artists, however, knew that what was truly beautiful and what was just a hideous attempt at it. Ashura knew that, and he was certain Yuui was truly beautiful. No scars, or flaws—nothing. An angel among humans.

Which meant Ashura _had_ to have him.

He had to.

* * *

_A/N: I rather like this one. And by the way, the reason that it's been a billion years since I've put up the last chapter of Compelled even though I'm on spring break is because I'm suffering from a minor case of character difficulty. But fear not! For some reason, my mom getting mad at me, and both of us having yet another of our tear-filled-deep-emotional-debates-which-we-always-have-to-make-amends has got me cracking my whip at Yuui and Ashura and Fai and making them work again! (And NO, of course I'm not just whipping those three because the thougths of a threesome and a whip are running about my mind rather unchastely....) Oh, and any of you out there read City of Glass by Cassandra Clare, along with the other Mortal Instruments? Because if you have, and you're reading this, then you MUST be cheering at the top of your lungs for Alec/Magnus Bane (By the way, I love Magnus as much as I love Kuro-puu, whom I love a lot, especially since in the latest TRC chapter, he's holding on to Fai when Fai passes out). Oh, also, I've finally opened my eyes and started reading the fabulousness that is Loveless. Is it just me, or does anyone else always have an urge to 1) go up to Ritsuka and hug him every time he's sad and 2) Pet him between the ears? _

_And just for fun, I'm going to say that this will be the next chapter: First Time: A and the Maestro. Because yes, Ashura's first time was with Seishiro, and surprisingly enough--even to me--the Ashura in my head (because that's how much of a writer I am...my characters speak to me) told me that his first time was when he was a freshman. In high school. Pretty late, huh? Then again, to each his own. _


	13. Deary K and Y's Umbrella

Umbrella

Kamui opened the door; letting Yuui stumble through, stagger toward the bed and collapse. Yuui had called him, told him that there plans for tonight was cancelled…before breaking down right there on the phone. There was something wrong with the way Yuui had been holding himself and Fai up this month. Something very wrong. Or, more wrong than usual. It always unnerved Kamui how sometimes they'd be as normal as the next socialite could get, and then Yuui wouldn't speak to him or anyone for ages. The same went for Fai. The writer peeked around the doorway, and closed the door quietly. He sat down beside Yuui, and submerged his hand in the copious pale hair. "Well?"

"If you guess, then it's not breaking the rules, right?" The pillow muffled Yuui's voice halfway, until the musician brought his head up and replaced it in Kamui's lap, facing the writer's stomach, Yuui gripped Kamui's shirt with one hand and buried his face in the journalist's thigh.

Kamui looked down slowly, and blinked slower yet. This was starting to scare him. But whatever it was, it was scaring Yuui, too. He had to be calm for both of them. Calm enough to compensate where Yuui lacked all. "I…you can tell me anything. We have all night. You can stay all night. I'll be here." He felt Yuui's head shake back and forth…clearly trying to refuse…reluctant…arguing with himself as to whether he should tell or not.

The writer fell silent and simply continued to stroke Yuui's hair. It took at least fifteen minutes, according to the digital clock on Kamui's nightstand, for Yuui to break the painful, restricted silence he seemed intent on keeping. And when it was broken, it was broken thoroughly and rapidly—with gaping, gasping sobs, dry sobs almost. The pianist's fingers held so tightly against Kamui's shirt, that the fingernails begin to grate at the beneath.

"Shh," Kamui said quietly. "Come on, easy." He clasped his hands gently on either side of Yuui's face and brought it level to his own. His eyes struck squarely with red-rimmed and tearstained blue ones. "Easy," he repeated, just as softly. "Easy, okay?" Yuui swallowed and closed his eyes. Kamui leaned forward and covered the distance between their lips. "Easy there. Easy like that."

Yuui opened his eyes as they drew apart. He nodded heavily—slowly. He looked at Kamui with his eyebrows arched at the center. His hands curled into fists…and then out again. "I can't…" he sounded like someone had a knife against his throat. "I can't tell you," he pleaded—only it wasn't a plea to Kamui. He was pleading to himself. "If I tell you…you'll…I can't!"

"I'll what?" Kamui challenged, defiant. His voice gained hardness for the first time. The sky was beginning to darken. "I'll what, Yuui? Hate you? Never speak to you? Be disgusted? Criticize you? Judge you? What? What could I possibly do? Tell everyone? Tell someone?" Yuui shook his head and looked away, covering his eyes with a hand. Kamui's face softened, pleading as much as Yuui had. "You can tell me anything. You know you can. Anything." He leaned forward again, touching Yuui's cheek. "We're brothers, Y."

They looked at each other for a long time—for the longest time. This was them. This was Yuui and Kamui—Y and K. Best friends. Brothers. They were one in the same. Their hearts were made the same, but just because they couldn't fall in love because of this didn't mean they didn't keep a part of each other's hearts wrapped around their necks—forever with them. They did. They loved each other.

And they knew; they knew that they had something rarely found in high society. They had a tie, a bond, which was so tight, that the harder either end was pulled, rather than ripping, it would only grow stronger. No matter how far they grew on the social scene—something that hardly mattered when it came to each other—they themselves would forever be together and beside one another. They'd never leave—they couldn't.

Whenever one of them was upset—with grades or family matters or love or whatever life threw at them—then the other would always cheer them up with a joint and plenty of sexual innuendos to set him laughing until he lost all thought of what was bothering him in the first place. Whenever one of them was frustrated with a project, be it writers' block or a ridiculously complicated piece of music, then the other would always stay up until the supernatural load was done—even when it meant sleeping through class the next day. Whenever one of them was sick, the other would always put up with the bitching, and the roomful of used tissues, and the dazed glares until the germs had been kicked out of town.

They'd never leave—they couldn't. They wouldn't. They would stick it out until the end—until both their ends. They'd never leave one without the other. Whether it was school, love, life, family…it didn't matter. To each other, they _were_ love, life, and family. They were everything. Even when one of them gained a new lover, even if one of them gained _the_ lover, the love that would rest them for all eternity—with the wooing and stars and all—they other would still always come first. Always. Because that was the mark of a true lover—if he was your true love, then you wouldn't have to make the choice of friend or lover first. Because they'd both come at a tie.

And no matter how stifling and suffocating this life became for them, no matter how much poured down on them, hailed on them, no matter how cold the expectations turned, they'd protect each other. Defend each other. Shield each other. They'd fight for each other until the end. Even if their twins abandoned them, even if the ones they loved and would love turned hide and ran, they'd still be there. On each other's shoulders, their heads. Beneath each other's umbrellas, their hearts.

Yuui took a deep shuddering breath and brought his sore eyes up to Kamui. He knew all of this. He knew that he could trust Kamui. And the longer he stared into the writer's eyes, the more the knowing grew. It reached out until even his fingertips were strengthened by the knowledge. It panned out until his tears stopped and his breathing evened. Yuui curled his fingers around the hand the writer had kept against the musician's face. "It's about Fai and Kyle."

Kamui's face melted into a tiny smile—a bracing, accepting, smile; a smile that made it easier yet for Yuui to weave the tale of the Fluorite twins. The writer lay back against his pillows, and closed his eyes as the pianist followed his lead, both clasping hands with the other, and losing all feeling in their bodies until they were on the verge of sleep. "I'm all ears," Kamui said.

* * *

_A/N: The reason for this is that it should be in my Music To My Ears thing, but it's completely in the Secrets universe, so I decided to put it in Impulse. This takes place very early in the Sumeragi and Fluorite twins' high school freshman year. Kamui is the first to know, and throughout that year, Seishiro finds out, too. But Kamui is the first. And now a note about the song. I first heard it (and you all probably did too) as Umbrella by Rihanna feat. Jay-Z. And I liked it at the time because I was in sixth grade and I was a little preteen girl who's supposed to think that sort of music is cool. Two years changes kids my age a LOT. The thing is, Rihanna already annoyed me, but some of her songs are okay. The thing that irks me about this particular one is that it has so much potential. And Rihanna is the kind of singer that aims for "sexy", thus, she makes every song sexy. And Umbrella is all right as a sexy song, but the meaning is so, so, SO much more. Marie Digby's version is very good, but it's a little bit too reserved in the way it's done. All Time Low's, McFly's, that European rock band that I forgot the name of, all their versions are good, too, but theirs are all a little too....rockish? It's not...endearing enough. The way they all sing it makes it sound like it's for lovers only. It's so not. In GG, the pair of best friends are Blair and Serena, as they're the two main characters. In here, their parallels are Kamui and Yuui. And if you want, I'll send you the Youtube video that gave me the idea for this. And the version of Umbrella that I personally love the best is Taylor Swift's. It's reserved, not sexy, extremely close and personal....and I just like her stuff, anyhow. Some don't, some do, it's opinions. _


	14. The Maestro's Cookie Jar

Cookie Jar

Seishiro Sakurazuka does _not_ have a problem.

Seishiro leans back against the wall, crossing his arms, and watches Yuui Fluorite walk by, gathering his books from the desk in the Sakurazuka household's library. Even in the winter, wearing layer upon layer of clothing, it still seems that Yuui could manage to show his body through—someway, somehow. The sweater clings to his body just right, and when he bends over, it rides up just enough to tempt Seishiro. His pants ride just so low that they're fitting against the area above his thighs, but loose enough to leave some up to Seishiro's mental imagery.

Yuui turns around and raises an eyebrow at the conductor. He smiles and drops the books onto the desk, placing his hands behind him, gripping the wooden edge. "You _like_ me," he says with a grin that makes Seishiro laugh. "You _do_, don't you?" The pianist's mouth opens expectantly, still full with that cheeky grin.

The junior arches both eyebrows infinitesimally and tips his head to one side, admiring how he can see the barest outline of Yuui's southern friend through the crotch of the freshman's jeans. Seishiro wets his lips and closes his eyes up into a smile. "Of course I do. Why would I invite someone I dislike to study at my house?"

Yuui steps slowly toward the conductor, shaking his head. "No. I mean you like me. Like, _like_ me. As in, you want to fuck me." His body collides front on with Seishiro's and the pianist's fingers tug at the conductor's collar. "Even though," Seishiro can feel warm, fluttering breath against his throat, "you're supposed to love Subaru."

"I do love Subaru," Seishiro objects pleasantly. He does nothing to push Yuui away, letting the pianist's lips float closely toward his own. The conductor brings one of his hands down the back of the freshman's jeans, and the other hand down the front.

Yuui laughs. "No you don't. If you did, then you wouldn't be molesting me." But he pushes himself harder into Seishiro, pinning the older boy against the wall. He looks up and smiles delicately into the junior's face, gesturing to where Seishiro's hands are. "Or maybe you do, but you're just going to be a bastard about it."

Seishiro curls the fingers of both of his hands and wipes the smile clean from Yuui's face. "Maybe I am," he murmurs into Yuui's ear as the pianist inhales sharply and fists Seishiro's shirt. He moves the fingers that are probing into the front of Yuui's jeans, turning the freshman into complete putty in his arms. He slides out and hoists the pianist up against the wall, and Yuui wraps his legs around Seishiro's waist, the blond head hitting the wall with a thud.

As Seishiro shoves Yuui's jeans down, swiftly unbuttons his own, and breathes in the scent of soft, slightly damp blond hair, he decides that Yuui Fluorite is definitely his favorite. The conductor just has a thing for blond sluts.

* * *

Seishiro leans back against his chair, and puts the joint between his lips, inhales and blows out thoughtfully. As Kamui Sumeragi reaches up on his toes to remove a book from a rather high shelf in the Sakurazuka library, and the writer's shirt is riding up quite nicely, the conductor _must_ admit—the eighth grader has absolutely lovely skin. And a lovely waist. And lovely dark hair.

Probably because he's Subaru's twin. But the more he watches Kamui, the more Seishiro can tell the difference between them—and the more Seishiro seems to like Kamui. Not that he likes Subaru any less; he just likes Kamui for different reasons and in different ways. For example, the annoyed look the writer was shooting at him currently was like a breath of fresh air. "What?" Kamui said flatly. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're kind of raping me with your eyes."

"Hm? Am I?" Seishiro humors him. "See, I can't understand why anyone would rape another with their _eyes_ when they can just rape them with their body. I mean, really, which is more satisfying, would you think? I suppose a mental image would last _longer_, but for present purposes—"

"You're dating my _brother_," Kamui snaps. He slams the book onto a table near the door and edges away slightly from the desk where Seishiro is seated at. Seishiro leans forward and clasps his hands neatly on the wooden surface, looking expectant for Kamui to continue—possibly with yet another writer-angst-filled-yet-randomly-placed rant. "Although you'll probably break up with each other in two weeks. Or less."

Seishiro tilts his head. "Then why so adamant? If you really don't think we'll last, then how about you come here?" He spreads his arms opens and smiles pleasantly. "I assure you I won't speak a word to your brother."

For a split moment—the tiniest, most infinitesimal of seconds—those large gray-blue eyes actually seem to consider the offer. After all, who could refuse Seishiro? Everyone knows that Seishiro has something that's scarily irresistible, whether it's charm or intrigue or curiosity or the fact that Seishiro is just terribly tempting. It's the fact that his reputation is so infamous for being skilled in what he did—and who he did—that allures everyone even more. But after that tiny passing of mere milliseconds, Kamui's mouth snaps back into place and he tosses his head haughtily. "Fuck yourself."

The conductor opens the drawer embedded into the left of the desk rather lazily, and takes out the sleek, white remote control that's hardly any bigger than his palm. As Kamui makes to stomp out in a dramatic fashion out the library door—preferably with a nice, loud slam to accentuate his insulted exit—Seishiro slips his finger over the largest button on the flat surface of the remote, and the doors lock shut.

And no matter what some others are beginning to insist, Seishiro does indeed have a heart. But just because he has a heart doesn't mean that he's sympathetic to every piteous case that crosses his path. And the fact that Kamui is turning around to face him with an expression that is crossed between sweet anticipation and a sort of fury that only a frightened little kitten can have not only completely stopped any chance of Seishiro feeling the slightest semblances of remorse, but it upped the fact that Seishiro is indeed quite horny today.

He slides out from the chair, and stands up, watching Kamui inch against the wall hurriedly. He can't help but recall vividly how it was only two days ago on that very wall that he had Subaru writhing and gripping and gasping against. Irony is lovely. "Why don't you just walk faster and get it over with?" Kamui almost sounds bored, even though there's still fright in his eyes. "I might as well be unbuttoning my pants to make it more convenient—"

But to use a cliché, Seishiro doesn't let him finish the sentence. He just catches the writer on the lips and puts one hand firmly at the shallow curve of Kamui's back. And although Seishiro can feel that Kamui's eyes are open at first, he feels them close very, _very_ soon, along with small hands coming up to grip at his shirt's collar. Oh, and there's tongue, too. But that's already a given.

And, well, all right, Seishiro probably hadn't really been planning to actually do Kamui. It's just too hard _not_ to play with the writer's mind, y'know? He _needed_ to do that to Kamui. Besides, Seishiro's not going to say that he's that devoted to Subaru. True, he's not going to go any further on Kamui that say, give him a quick lick, and maybe request the same for himself, but after the day's done, Seishiro just wanted to touch Kamui.

See, Kamui really does have great skin. And as Seishiro glides his mouth down, down, down—straight down the plane of Kamui's baby smooth stomach, past the soft, downy hair, and aiming right for his—

Seishiro decides that he definitely loves pale, perfect, soft skin. And it's just a fact of nature that Kamui has the best of the lot.

* * *

Seishiro leans back and crosses his leg over the other, one of his hands holding it in place. He sighs contentedly to himself as Subaru Sumeragi is immersed in the antique trumpet the conductor brought out just a while ago. It never takes much to bait Subaru into coming over, but today was particularly easy. And it's ever the more rewarding, as Seishiro has told Subaru that the ancient trumpet is cleaned every so often—very carefully, as to not harm its fragile state—meaning that Subaru is free to blow upon it and put his wonderful trumpeter skills to use.

In other words, Seishiro is currently having a fabulous time watching the eighth grader's lips pout and purse over the mouthpiece, and the small tongue flicker in and out every so often in order to keep his lips moist. Just looking on that perfect sight is giving Seishiro thoughts that are making his jeans feel quite uncomfortable. But, never fear, when you're Seishiro Sakurazuka, a problem like that is always easily amended. It's only ever a matter of when you want to, and how you want to.

As for when, Seishiro feels he'll like to wait a few more minutes, and as for how…on the desk with his tie around Subaru's delicate wrists sounded just peachy, thank you.

He loosens his tie on that thought, and waits until the sound of rustling cloth catches Subaru's attention. The trumpeter looks up with the large, green eyes—just as childish as his brother's—which Seishiro will someday love to reduce to broken tears, and Seishiro smiles at the expression that comes on to the seraphic face. "Yes? It's a beautiful instrument, isn't it?" he asks, as Subaru puts the trumpet down into the case and faces the conductor.

"Yeah." Subaru's long lashes curl up as his eyes widen at the sight of Seishiro loping easily toward him. The conductor knows that he hasn't locked the door, and knows that even if Fuuma walks in on them, his little brother won't be _too_ scarred. Hopefully. "Thanks for showing me."

"Oh." Seishiro smiles. "I hope you didn't think I do things like this out of the pure goodness of my heart. Because, y'know…" He's close enough to caress Subaru's cheek. Which he does. "I don't." His lips are so close to Subaru's mouth that when he talks he can feel the trumpeter's breath on the edge of his tongue. "I expect _some_ compensation."

"What kind of…compensation…" The way Subaru says it, breathlessly and faintly, makes the question have no rise in tone at all. It hardly sounds like a question. Seishiro can feel his jeans tightening, and he slams his body right up against Subaru's, pinning him to the wall with absolutely no space to spare. He knows Subaru can feel him, and he himself can feel Subaru hardening up quite nicely.

Seishiro just smiles quietly as a reply and covers Subaru's mouth with his lips, and intakes Subaru's breath with his tongue. Because really, Subaru has the softest, most perfectly supple lips Seishiro's ever tasted, and that just makes the conductor extremely glad that he always keeps an extra box of condoms in the drawer of his father's desk. Although…Subaru's hands, the perfect size, grasping desperately at his chest and arms feel just as good.

And when Seishiro wraps his arms around Subaru's waist and notices, even with his mouth busily occupied, how neatly the trumpeter fits into his arms, Seishiro can't help but think about how maybe it's Subaru's waist that's the best. But then again, as Seishiro glides his tongue over Subaru's bare chest, and his collarbone and throat and nape and shoulders and thighs, the conductor can't help but wonder if perhaps one of those is the best of Subaru.

Though, honestly, it doesn't really matter if Seishiro can't decide. 'Cause, y'know, if he wants, he'll have them all. And from the light in Subaru's eyes every time the eighth grader just _sees_ him…well…

Seishiro kind of already does.

* * *

In retrospect, Seishiro can't deny the fact that he's extremely proud of his…er…conquests. There's actually nothing better he'd like to do then to hold some sort of story-telling gathering with all the people he's ever slept with and tell them about each and every rendezvous he's ever had. Although, that would take the better part of a day, and perhaps even two if they're going to have lunch breaks and such.

And even though those are his top three favorites, Seishiro can't exactly say that he hasn't had…er…others. It's not his fault, though. Really, it isn't. It's just…well…let's put it this way: Seishiro can explain and defend himself best with metaphors. It makes him seem less insane—not that he is—and there's a larger chance that people will actually try to understand him rather than sticking an umbrella up his ass.

Not that anyone's tried to do that either.

So far, at least.

Anyway. Seishiro believes that the best metaphor for his situation concerning his…sexual appetite…is…he supposes…cookies. Cookies. Yes, cookies. Cookies, as in the wonderfully sweet snack that every child must taste at least ten times during their childhood, otherwise they might as well be classified as having no childhood at all.

And Seishiro knows that he's very much like the child who can never, ever, _ever_ seem to keep his little hands out of the cookie jar. Meaning, just as a naughty child can't be scolded so terribly for having a rather spirited will to get more than his fair share, Seishiro thinks that he shouldn't be as infamous for who he sleeps with.

And just to make you understand further, Seishiro will demonstrate how just as adults—not just children—love cookies and all different kinds, that Seishiro can't just eat one cookie his entire life, either. And even if he could pick a favorite, he can't pick just one at that.

Let's start with Yuui. Yuui is the sugar cookie. It's like he's been here and available since the beginning of time, and he always will be. He's simple, he's easy, but for some reason, he's addictive. And sugar cookies are pale and soft, too. You always need more of him, because he's just so _good_. He's ridiculously, absurdly easy to get whenever you need a quick snack—no commitment, no strings, nada—and easy to finish once you're full. Easy, but yummy.

And then there's Kamui. Kamui is the Milano cookie. You know the kind—the Pepperidge Farm ones that everyone always eats because they're so damn good, even though they don't really look it. He's refined, and dignified and he _is_ a bit pricier than the others. And although he looks simple—just two biscuits and some chocolate—for some reason, you can never pull the two bits apart and just lick the chocolate. You have to eat him whole, and he's so _delicious_, that you forget about wanting to tear him in half in the first place. He's complicated, and he's not _as_ sweet as the sugar cookie, but he's ravishing in his own way.

Subaru. Oh, _God_, Subaru. Subaru just has to be the classic, chocolate chip cookie. Straight from Grandma's oven. Not that, y'know, Seishiro's grandmother ever _made_ cookies. Seishiro's grandmother doesn't do that for her grandchildren—rather, she prefers to spend her time writing trust funds for them, which enables them to not only buy their own cookies, but buy winter cottages on the Alps and summer homes in Bora-Bora. The chocolate chip is the classic—it's all-purpose because you always want it and you'll always come back for it at one point or another during your life. But you'll get bored of it again and again, and even though you think, you've converted to another cookie(s), you'll still find yourself wanting one last taste—just _one_, you swear—of that warm, welcoming chocolate chip cookie. And because you're a bastard, you'll then go find another cookie to munch on, thus making the chocolate chip's wide green eyes show _that_ expression and then _you'll_ want to—

Ahem. Going on.

As Seishiro mentioned earlier, the list _doesn't_ stop there. He's thought at times that he shouldn't be called the Maestro, and that "Cookie Monster" would be far more appropriate. But. He digresses.

There's Fai. Yes, Fai. True, Seishiro can't sleep with him, but that doesn't mean Seishiro can't…well…_touch_ him. Nothing too probing…a slap on certain back areas, a squeeze here and there…maybe a kiss or two on the lips and elsewhere…the usual. Fai is like those peanut butter crackers with the vanilla cream inside them. Seishiro doesn't know if anyone knows this, but he's considerably allergic to peanuts. If he eats anything containing peanuts, then he shall swell up quite royally, and therefore, he'd have to commit suicide to save face. But if he simply licks the cream _very carefully_ off the crackers, nothing will happen other than his tongue will tingle for a few minutes or so. As long as he doesn't cross that border, nothing bad will happen.

Oh, but that's not all. Then, there's Ashura. See, Ashura is Oreo cookie. He has to be eaten in parts, otherwise, it goes all too fast and much too intensely. Seishiro's always had to eat Oreos in bits—first he has to take the two cookies apart; he has to lick the cream, and only then can he finish the entire sweet. It's the exact same with Ashura. Seishiro was, after all, the one who took Ashura's virginity under the pretense of having the artist—who was a freshman, at the time—come over to portrait him. Well, the portrait turned out swell. The only problem was that it was a nude portrait. Still.

So next is Mioru. Mioru is a biscotti. A biscotti cookie is dry, not very sweet at all, and quite tough to sink your teeth through. But why, then, do people still insist on eating them if they sound _that_ unsavory? No one really knows. They're just extremely good for one reason or another, and so everyone keeps eating them. Mioru is that precisely. Seishiro doesn't quite know why he slept with the athlete, and he's not about to say that it was something he regretted because Mioru was…er…excellent. He just was. And if Mioru is a jerk, then Mioru is an exquisite jerk.

Kyle. Kyle is the oatmeal cookie. Yes, Seishiro has slept with Kyle. And nowadays, looking back, Seishiro wonders if it was even consensual, as Seishiro was hardly out of fifth grade at the time, and his parents had left him in Kyle's care for a few days while they took Fuuma to an out-of-country Little League game. One thing everyone should know about Seishiro and oatmeal cookies is that he absolutely despises them. They taste _awful_. He isn't allergic to them or anything such as that, but the graininess makes his tongue feel like it has just developed a heady case of chicken pox, and he wants nothing more than to scratch away, only it's sort of impossible to scratch your tongue. Furthermore, Kyle is the only man that has ever _topped_ Seishiro. And Seishiro still wants to shoot him for it.

Now, Seishiro has many favorite cookies, but one of his personal favorites is the amaretto shell cookie. It can also be found in a Pepperidge Farm bag, right beside the Milano cookies. And just as they are difficult to find in stores—since they're always taken the minute they reach the shelves—Seishiro has only ever had an amaretto shell cookie thrice in his lifetime. Because as soon as he realizes Yukito Tsukishiro is a highly delectable cookie, Touya sweeps him off the shelves. Three times. Just three times. Anyway, quality rather than quantity.

Oh, and one must never think that Seishiro discriminates against cookies—because he doesn't. Many newcomers never realize this, but the Maestro = bisexual. Very, _very_ bisexual.

Tomoyo, Amaterasu, and Souma are all M&M cookies, because Seishiro leans to one side more heavily than the other, he doesn't differ much when it comes to lovely ladies. All three are scrumptious for obvious reasons that can be easily seen—and felt. They're all tight and soft and supple. See? Simple.

Yuzuriha and Sakura are a bit different. They're frosted cookies, because they're almost ridiculously sweet, but that's why Seishiro likes them. If he's in the mood for something otherworldly sweet—almost to the point where it will give him a headache or a sore throat—then these two are the ones he'll eat.

So, you see, Seishiro doesn't have a problem. Loving cookies isn't a problem. And these cookies _want_ to be eaten by him—depriving them of the honor would only be rude and cold. Besides, Seishiro just can't keep his hands out of the cookie jar.

Fine. So maybe he has a _bit_ of a problem.

* * *

_A/N: The reason I've been gone for over two weeks is because school's reeeallly close to ending, and we've had our eighth grade play and so on. I'm stage crew, and tonight was the final performance, and I stubbed my toe on a backdrop. But, y'know, that's okay. It's also because I've been writing this doozy of a chapter, Cookie Jar by the Gym Class Heroes is a song everyone MUST listen to because it's hilariously in-character for Seishiro in this AU. Oh, and if you haven't already, take a look at my latest update about what might come to be and tell me if you'd read it as avidly as you did Secrets. _


	15. K and F

First (True) Encounter: Kurogane You-ou and Fai Fluorite

It was snowing. He knows it's clichéd and stupid and altogether pretty, fucking girly of him, but that's what he remembers the most, and that's how he'll always remember it. It was snowing and it was cold and it was Christmas Eve night. He remembers how he was barely any bigger than his father's thigh, and he was stubbornly hiding behind the skirt of his mother's dress throughout nearly the entire evening, wishing that the stupid event were _over_ and it was already Christmas morning so he could rip the wrapping paper from his presents and use the toy sword he knew he had to have to poke his pretty nursemaid in a place ladies shouldn't be poked.

He remembers how all his little six-year-old self did was yawn when he and his parents entered the spacious theatre, and how he simply glared at the lights—dim and bright all at once—and how he pouted in his seat whenever an associate of his father's or a socialite friend of his mother's came to greet them. He remembers how he burrowed himself deep between his father and his mother and mutters about toy swords and nursemaids and stupid grown-up events, while his father ruffles his hair and his mother smiles down at him gently.

And he remembers, that when the lights went all the way down, and the tasteful glow of the spotlight shines on the magnificent center stage, he forgets just a little bit of how disgruntled he is, and brings his red eyes to meet the musicians who'd be entertaining the audience for this year's Christmas Benefit Concert.

He remembers this part the most because this part is the part where the whole point of him remembering this otherwise pointless memory in the first place. He remembers this part the most because this is when he first sees them. This is when he first sees _him_.

There's a piano—a big, black grand—right in the middle of the stage. And when the lights come on and the audience dims off, two young boys come out from stage left and right. They're both blond and slender and fair and pale and so very, _very_, very young and they're so obviously twins.

They're both dressed in identical creamy white sweaters and black pants. They both have big blue eyes and small, full, pink lips. They both have hair that seems to float around their heads like halos. They both have matching smiles and tiny white pearls for teeth. Kurogane loves them both. He loves them so much, and he doesn't quite know why. He doesn't know that it's called love, he just wants to have them—he wants to have them like he wants his new toy sword, but he doesn't know why. He just sees them and wants them because they look like…like….

"My god," his mother murmurs to his father. "Look at them. Are they boys or angels?" His head snaps up to meet first his mother's expression and then his father's. That's the word. Angels. They look like angels and he loves them immediately. Then again, he'd never admit he loves them, and he never would. He just likes to stare at them, and keep on staring because they look—as his mother said—like angels. And his mother isn't the only one. He hears his father whistle, low and surprised, and he hears gasps fluttering around through the entire theatre.

But the angels just smile and begin to move, and Kurogane watches them on the edge of his seat, his small hands holding his mother's delicate gloved one. His neck cranes to see since he's so short, and finally his father grins and lifts him up just high enough to see over the heads of all the adults.

One of the angels is now seated at the piano, his little legs dangling from the bench until a stage hand swiftly appears and pushes a series of sort of wooden blocks lined with cloth beneath the angel's feet. The other angel has taken a stand beside his brother, clasping hands with the one at the piano for a brief moment before facing the audience.

He watches them mesmerized—mesmerized as only a child can be, but everyone in the theatre is reduced to nothing more than a child, because they're all mesmerized just like he is—as the one at the piano starts weaving a soft, gentle melody that otherwise would go unnoticed if not paid great heed to. The one still standing, fixes something small and black against his collar, takes a deep breath and starts singing.

He listens hard and with lots of concentration to the lyrics. For some reason, it feels important to him, and he thinks he should listen—thinks that something that comes out of the angel's mouth should be heard and held. So he listens.

_Every year at Christmas_

_All I can see_

_Are pictures of the things I want_

_Around the tree_

_But this year's a little different_

_I'm not thinking of myself_

_So my prayer for this Christmas_

_Is for somebody else_

As he hears the words, he sinks a tiny bit into his chair—not because he feels guilty or anything stupid like that. He knows that he's been good, so he deserves to get that sword from Santa. But when he looks up, he sees tears glisten in his mother's eyes, and when he tugs at the edge of her glove, she smiles down at him and shakes her head, telling him that nothing's wrong, that the boy and the boy's voice and his brother and his brother's playing are just too beautiful—that she really thinks they're angels.

He turns back to watch and looks up at his father; his father's got this curious little expression on his face as he watches the boys. Kurogane frowns and his father just laughs silently at his son's confusion. He turns back to watch the angels and leans back against his father's chest.

_God I know you're listening_

_And you can hear_

_The need of every broken heart_

_And all their tears_

_I don't have a lot to offer_

_Just this one simple prayer_

_That this Christmas everyone will know_

_Somebody cares_

The more he watches the one who's singing and the one who's playing, the more he starts to wonder if angels can feel pain even when they're perfect, or if angels feel pain for the world, since he knows from his father that there are some bad people in this world who do bad things like not feeding their dogs—Kurogane feeds his bulldog right on time every day because he's not bad. But the one at the piano, even if he's smiling, looks hurt at the one who's singing. And the singing angel just looks hurt. Sad. Broken.

Kurogane thinks that if he had pretty angels, he'd treat them really nice. And he'd share them with his mother as much as she wanted. And he wouldn't poke them with his new toy sword. Or set his little bulldog on them like he did once with the soccer-playing neighbor boy.

When the song ends, the applause is so loud it almost hurts his ears, but he doesn't notice. He's too busy clapping and jumping up and down and scowling at his parents—who're laughing at him and clapping as hard as _they_ can simultaneously—and trying not to get squished by the huge, towering adults around him.

The piano angel carefully hops off, takes his singing brother angel by the hand, clasps them together, and they bow. Then they hug, and Kurogane hears his mother go, "My god" again real soft and quietly. And then a young man comes on stage. The man has round glasses and the kindest face Kurogane ever saw. The man hugs the twins as well, but Kurogane sees both stiffen—even though their smiles are still perfectly there.

And all Kurogane thinks, as his mother and father start speaking about how miraculously amazing the Fluorite twins are to the people around them, all he can think is about how lucky that young, bespectacled man is to have not one, but two angels.

And later on that night, when Kurogane is sleepy and his father is half-dragging him by the hand—extremely close to the point where his father will pick him up and carry him against his shoulder, but Kurogane protests every time the offer is made—he bumps shoulders with a blond boy with big blue eyes and the bespectacled young man who's with them stops Kurogane's father and starts talking with him, while Kurogane stares at the boy and his brother. The brother whispers almost viciously—more vicious than an angel should be—into the boy's ears, but the boy takes Kurogane's (a very surprised Kurogane) hand and says, "Merry Christmas" and smiles the brightest angel smile Kurogane's ever seen.

Kurogane goes home, and the next morning—Christmas morning—Kurogane tumbles down the stairs into his large family room, with the octagonal ceiling and the high windows, and sits in front of the huge tree, and thinks hard, as the maid puts hot chocolate in front of him, and his parents hug and kiss him and wish him a Merry Christmas and his pretty nursemaid hands him his bed robe that he forgot to put on, and thinks harder still about the lyrics of the angel's song, and then finally turns to his mother and father.

And he says stubbornly, red in his cheeks, "I don't want any of them."

His mother's face falls and his father stares at him with a slight scowl.

"Give them all away," he continues. "Other kids can have 'em. I don't need them."

And then his father starts laughing, and his mother and nursemaid start crying, and Kurogane isn't quite sure why, but he has a feeling that he's not in trouble or about to be grounded, and that's good since, y'know, it's Christmas and all. Besides, maybe, in return for being so good this Christmas, Santa will bring him three times as much next year.

Maybe Santa will bring him an angel.

* * *

_A/N: I figured that with all the angst in Compelled and the angst to come in Impulse with the SeishiroxSubaru chapters we need some good, cute, adorable KuroFai fluff (which has been nonexistent for long enough to be too long). And since today's a half day, and it's kind of scorching here, we should remind ourselves that one day it will be below 60 degrees and we won't burn to death and the sun doesn't hate us as much as we think it does. Plus, I think I'll be able to get the next chapter of Compelled up this weekend, what with Memorial Day and my beautiful lack of tests and homework (since I'm graduating from eighth grade soon and enjoying my last moments as top of the school, since next year I'll be freshmeat). The song that brought this entire chapter to mind is Joy To The World by Nick Jonas. It was sung and recorded when he was still inoffensive and before his voice had broken, so the first time I hear this, last Christmas, while we were driving home, I thought of Fai immediately for some reason, and the more I thought, the more I was like, "Yes. If young Fai had a singing voice, it would sound like Nick Jonas before he was a stupid boy band offender." And then the fact that Yuui was a pianist just added more to this. All of our Secrets gang, mostly, can sing. But the musicians turned to their instruments sooner or later, and the artists and athletes turned to their canvases and paints and pens and papers and sports sooner or later, too. Fai is just an example. _


	16. View S and the Maestro

View Inside: Subaru Sumeragi and Seishiro Sakurazuka

I smile and sit and watch as he laughs deliciously with his brother, with Fai and Yuui, with his friends. His green eyes close up perfectly when he laughs like that, and his mouth is open—carefree and you can see his tongue and all of his white, white teeth. He's so endearing. Really, he is. I've never had one like him before. He's the longest I've ever had one. Usually, it's one or two nights—maybe a week if they're exceptional—and then it's on to the next.

But for some reason, I feel like he might be a bit more long term—however long it takes for me to become bored with him. It's already been an entire two years, and I'm still not bored. Two years. Normally, in two years, I'd have gone through an entire building-full. But not this time—not him. And for some inexplicable reason of ridiculousness, when I watch him like this, smiling and laughing and talking, I don't think I'll ever get tired of him.

Which is preposterous, because I know I will. Sooner or later, I always am, and it just so happens that for him, sooner is later. That's all. I _will_ get bored of him—he's just a bit more interesting than all the others is all. It'll happen soon, though. It always does.

Oh, but now he's coming towards me, running, almost, his hair whipping around his face in a way that makes me want to grab him and never let go and possibly eat his face for a few choice minutes. He doesn't stop running when he reaches me—he simply stands between my legs and kisses me. Kisses me full on the mouth and doesn't stop. Frenches me full _in_ the mouth and doesn't stop. At least he doesn't stop until we're both certain that if we don't stop soon we'll turn blue from lack of oxygen. Then we stop.

But his arms remain around my neck, and my hands play against his hips, fingers through his belt loops. His green eyes are brighter than ever, glossy and clear and bottomless in the sun. I've always thought it was the eyes that did me in. His eyes are beautiful.

_Love him love him love him. You love him._

"Hello," I say, tracing his cheekbones with my thumb. He laughs breathlessly—the most scrumptious sound, ringing and pealing and absolutely angelic. The eyes are wonderful, but sometimes I wonder if it's the way he laughs—or just when he laughs. But it's still fascinating how his eyes look at me—they adore me. He adores me.

_Adores you and adores you and loves you. So much._

His eyebrows gather in the middle and he smiles again. "I thought you were busy. SAT prep and stuff. Shouldn't you be there instead of waiting around for me, sitting on a brick wall?" He's still got his arms around my neck, and I can feel his fingers gently and softly and shyly touching the hair at my nape.

I kiss the corner of his mouth, and let my fingers trail down the curve of his ear, down the side of his throat and back to his lips. My thumb parts his mouth gently and I feel his tongue flick against my finger. I let my other hand hold the small of his back, keeping him close—so close—to me. "Of course I _should_ be studying. But," I yank him closer, until my lips are moving against his, "I don't really feel like it. I like this better. It's less tedious."

His eyes close up again into a laugh—a slightly embarrassed, delectably naïve laugh, but nonetheless extremely mollified; extremely pleased. Admiring. He opens his eyes carefully and looks into mine, the smile—a sort of remainder from the laugh—is still so very softly there. His expressions never cease to amaze and amuse and entertain and enthrall me. Every single one is embedded neatly and flawlessly into my memory. My favorite thus far is this one—the one he's wearing right now.

It's the perfect balance between shy and naïve and lusty and adorable. I know he wants me. He's only been to my house dozens of times, and he's only been with me—like _that_—once, that one beautiful time when I showed him my family heirloom of a trumpet.

"You should've at least brought a book or two that you could read while you were waiting," he says, still wearing that perfect expression—my favorite one of all. "Or some flash cards or something. I don't want you to fail or anything, 'kay?"

The way he tacks the little "'kay?" onto the end is positively precious. I kiss him again, this time it's the same fierce and adorable and brilliant way he kissed me before. I can feel his surprise and I can feel his welcome and I can feel how he wants this and needs this and likes this and loves this. I draw away and grin pleasantly. "But that would take away from my attention. I don't like having to divide my focus, you know. I like to put it all," I kiss him, "on one," I kiss him again, "single," and again, "thing." And again. Then I tilt my head. "Or person."

The look in his eyes—on his face, the taste in his lips—after that is unbelievable. He can't believe it and yet he wants to—and in a way, he already does. I just smile at the beautiful incredulity on his face—maybe that'll be a new favorite of mine.

_Loves you and loves you and will never betray you. Loves you and admires you and adores you and needs you and loves you. Loves you and wants you and treasures you and will never leave you. Loves you and will do anything for you will go anywhere will be anything will become anything will love you will never hurt you. _

It's so simple to read others. To read them like I read a music score set on my conductor's stand. And it's just as easy to manipulate the notes and the dynamics and the beat and the rhythm once I've got the hang of it. A new piece takes a few days to learn, a few more days to perfect, and then you can make it completely your own.

Reading Subaru is no different. But reading him is strange. I read him and I read him and I learn him and I learn him and when I can finally manipulate and steer him and change him and twist him however I like—I don't want to. He's the first ever piece of music that I don't want to do anything to. I like the song just the way it is. I like the score just the way it is. I don't want to write in an alternate chord or crescendo or another sequence or a trill or a mordant.

All he does is laugh again. I've never noticed—never thought about it—never noticed how much he laughs. I've also never noticed how much I like it. I like making him laugh. I love it. He should never stop laughing—he's not allowed to. I forbid it. I will. "You're good at that," he says quietly. He touches my cheek.

"At what?" I bring lean into his touch before I clasp my hand around his, holding the intertwined fingers up beside our faces.

"At spinning pretty words," he replies. Then he laughs again and I have to smile—you know the old story? About how the first time a baby laughs a faerie is born? Well, I believe the same. Only, every single time Subaru laughs ten faeries are born. Right now as we speak, faeries are sprinkling into the air, newly-made. "Is this how you get girls to love you?"

I smile widely. "No." And touch my forehead with his. "This is how I get _you_ to love me."

Surprise coats his face, his green eyes opened as far as they can. His lips are parted just the tiniest bit. I wait and watch as his expression relaxes back into place and his smile reflects mine, only a thousand times more. He's wearing that expression again—the one I favor and love. "Save it for the girls. I don't need pretty words."

"What do you need, then?"

"You."

"Besides me."

He laughs. "Nothing."

_Love him and hold him and caress him and treasure him and never leave him. Touch him and care for him and love him and kiss him and love him and need him and never betray him. Keep him and love him and see him and feel him and make him laugh make him smile make him happy and have him forever. Love him and love him and love him and love him love him love him love him. Don't hurt him. Never hurt him._

* * *

_A/N: The part I'm working on now in Compelled is so angstySeishiroSubaruangsty that I needed some fluff to recover. Fluff is like comfort food, don't you think? Anyway, this took place when Subaru was a freshman in high school and Seishiro was a junior. Just the year before everything started falling apart. So really, even though this is the fluffiest thing you'll ever find--not really, but maybe--if you read it while thinking of it as hindsight, and then comparing this to them presently, in Compelled and Intrigue, it won't seem so fluffy anymore. I'm probably the first ever writer to almost cry while writing romanticmushygushy fluff. Seriously. _

_You can also tell this is kind of when Seishiro is just starting to discover hints that Subaru's not like 'everyone else'. That Sei-chan might seriously be in some deep excrement when it comes to his little trumpeter. But mostly, at this time, Seishiro still thought that Subaru was just another screw. _


	17. Timeline: Yuuko Ichihara

**Timeline: Yuuko Ichihara**

She knows that although no one can imagine her as being such, at some point in time, she was a child. And as a child in an orphanage, a little girl, she was raped. The man had come in for an inspection—a well-to-do young thing, with his suit and tie all dressed up—and on his way back from the head matron's office, he'd spotted her, brought her into an empty closet and violated her thoroughly.

But she's always been odd, and even then, she didn't cry tears of blood or demand, screaming, that the man be punished; she didn't even tell anyone what had happened and no one ever really knew. But she did find out, when she was a little older, and when she'd gone out of the orphanage to a private high school—because she was just that smart—that this man was a socialite. And by this time, he'd married a benefactress with a young son a few years younger than she herself.

The son's name was Kyle Rondart.

And a few months into their freshman year, she noticed a change in Kyle. It was neither disturbing nor upsetting nor irked her or interested her in any particular way. She simply continued on with her homework and her schoolwork and her writings and her job on the student newspaper committee. And whenever she happened to have contact with Kyle in the halls, she merely smiled enigmatically at him, poked his glasses around a bit, and walked on.

Throughout all of high school, she lived in a small apartment just outside of town all by herself. It was a nice apartment, but it wasn't a penthouse. And the matrons from the orphanage checked in on her once every while. But otherwise than that, she was quite fine. But whenever she was at school, she noted just how much she loved watching the _other_ students. The majority of the school was all young socialites—just like the man, Kyle's stepfather, who had raped her almost a decade ago. She never thought she would have anything to do with those elite children.

She herself certainly wasn't a socialite. But for some reason, she found all of their secrets absolutely intriguing. For there were definitely secrets, that much she knew. The way they all seemed to _know_ their place and _know_ what they were and _know_ what they'd be and _know_ how beautiful and perfect they were. They were all so sure, and yet, she could see every bit of misgiving in their eyes. It flashed every time a teacher praised them for their talents. It flashed every time one of them reached a little too high for the liking of another. It flashed every time there was a new couple on the scene.

It flashed and flashed and flashed and flashed.

Everyone else thought they were perfect. But she knew better. And she _loved_ watching them. She absolutely loved the fact that even though everyone else thought they were perfect and even though some of them actually believed it themselves, that most of them knew they weren't perfect and all of them were terrified someone would find out. And in a way, she felt pitied them. Because with her eyes and her ears and her mind, she saw how if something was just shifted here, or one of them was warned then, or if this had happened just a bit sooner, then so much could change. They could've realized and been so much happier.

And plus, she felt a certain need to play puppet with them. They were all so blinded by what was in their faces—the perfection, the obsession, the beauty, the money, the ambition, the lust. They couldn't see how much better they'd all be without any of it. If only for a few minutes they'd stop _looking_ and take time to _see_.

But none of them, in her time at high school, ever did.

* * *

When she graduated, she graduated with highest honors, top of her class, best scores and all. It wasn't without her fair share of trouble, though, as she was sure none of the teachers were quite fond of her when she left, and doubtless, none of them were sad to see her leaving, as all of them were more than traumatized by her presence through those four years.

Kyle graduated on an equal level, and whereas he set off to a medical college—far, far from home and his stepfather, she noticed—she herself set off for one of the standard socialite colleges: Akamizu.

Undeniably, she was compelled to follow these socialites on to their next stop toward becoming full-on like their parents. She wanted to know how they went from innocent children, all dolled-up in J. Crew baby sweaters and Chanel baby shoes, to the Botox-ed CEO directors and fashion designers and benefactresses and philanthropists their parents were.

She wasn't in the least disappointed.

Not only that, for the first time in her life, she had excitement of her own. How? Well, that was simple.

She fell in love.

And who was the lucky man who caught her? No one surprising. Just a simple bespectacled young man, with long, black hair all swept up at the back, strands falling all around his face—a simple young man with a soft voice and a kind face and the kindest, gentlest smile. A young, simple man named Clow Reed. A young, simple man who loved learning and who would one day inherit the largest trust fund in the country and the largest company in the region.

And although she had had practice before in mega-multi-tasking, it was quite difficult to keep to her studies in the morning, watch the socialites in the evening, and play lover all night at the same time. But Clow Reed was special, and she loved him like she thought she'd never love anything. And even though he was a socialite, he was different. She knew that even before she loved him.

She also knew, however, that before college ended, both of them would have to turn and walk in opposite directions. And she didn't really mind. It'd always been said that you only loved like _that_ once in your life. She knew that Clow was that once. And even if some people continued to love after that once, she didn't want to. She would rather just love once and fully, and then have many loves that couldn't even compare. Once was enough, if once was everything.

So they talked, one last time, the night before graduation.

They walked all around campus, settling on the rooftop of the Hall, where both of them had first met—first new Sacreds. She brushed her hands over the metal railing, looking out toward the lights of the construction site just a ways from the road—apparently, a new club was being built. "I'm going to be a writer."

He smiled at her. "Newspaper?"

"No. Magazine. It's going to be addictive." She smiled up back.

"I know it will be. It has to be."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the rail and bumped the side of her head on his shoulder lightly. "There's talk about the internet. They've come up with this new thing. It's called a blog."

"I've heard." His eyes shied toward her through the corner of his glasses.

"If it becomes big…maybe I'll do that, too."

He looked ahead into the night-covered campus. "A lot's changing. The internet spreads things quicker than the press and television."

"Forewarned is forearmed."

"News isn't the only thing." He glanced down at her.

"I know." She grinned at him. "I know."

He was quiet for a while. Then, "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I might love someone else someday."

"You're supposed to."

"And you?"

She tugged at the side of his glasses, just as she'd once done with Kyle Rondart. "I'll just love you." A pause. "What do you think?"

He leant down and kissed her on the lips. "I think you'll be bewitching."

Her eyebrows arched. "Bewitching? I like that."

* * *

Elite came first. Elite came first because she wanted to start of seriously and solemnly so that people knew she meant business, and so people would think she was absolutely harmless, even though she wasn't. She wanted to start off seriously because by doing so she outed that young man who'd raped her so many years ago. His name was Fei Wang Reed. And in one swoop of her keyboard, she had him disappearing to some remote country, and saved Kyle. With that in mind, everyone dove for her, and she was on par with the top benefactress in terms of bank accounts in two months after the article.

Addictive came second and when gifts of congratulations of starting her magazine came pouring in after the first edition was sent out, a letter with butterfly seal came in with it, and she opened it because she knew who it was from and she smiled to herself as she read and found out that Clow Reed had not only inherited his father's company, but he'd also gained something of far more worth. She held the photograph up to the light and smiled at the little baby boy in his father's arms.

BWitch came last. It came last because she waited just until everyone was so poured in with Addictive and Elite that they wouldn't realize she was bWitch. Because not many of the first set of immensely lucky people featured "anonymously" in her blog realized it. They were all too caught up in their own lives. And she herself was just getting the hang of playing big brother to them.

And of course, she received a letter around that time—not from Clow—but from Kyle. Enclosed, was a photograph of two of the most beautiful young boys she thought she'd never see. Blond and blue-eyed and pale and perfect and haunting. Apparently, Kyle had chosen to become a father in a way eerily similar to the way he had gained his own stepfather.

She'd seen the boys before, and she looked forward to writing about them because she felt as though by the time they were old enough, she would had enough practice to have them be the best generation she'd ever have done. And she knows it'll be true. She just isn't quite sure how. But she has a feeling that it won't be very easy at all—then again, it'd been a while since she'd had a challenge.

* * *

It's only four years after she's seen the picture of the beautiful blond boys when she decides to expand her office a few floors and gets her actual office room renovated. She also decides to help watch over and mentor the children of some extremely important socialites, as they all want to get on her good side by apparently giving up their young for the taking, and really, she couldn't be more content to accept.

She remembers so distinctly when a young boy who looks just barely into middle school—just up to her shoulder—with dark, thick hair and the prettiest smile she's ever seen, walks right in to her office room and situates himself on the other side of her desk. When she asks what his name is, he simply smiles until his eyes close up and replies, "Seishiro Sakurazuka, miss."

And she knows right then and there that this boy will be special because he _is_ special.

When she first meets him, Seishiro is in seventh grade and he's lost his virginity to a girl just the month before, but his eyes flashed darkly when he told her with his pretty, pretty smile that that wasn't exactly the first time he's been through sex. And when she sees that little twist in his voice and in his pretty smile, she smiles back because she knows exactly what he's talking about and has been through.

But Seishiro isn't just pretty smiles—Seishiro is pretty words and pretty gazes, too, and someday, she thinks he's going to get himself into great trouble when those pretty words and smiles and gazes attract someone who's going to scare Seishiro by holding on too tightly and loving him more than he'll ever want. And she knows that he needs someone precisely like that, but they'll cross that bridge when it's built.

A few months pass and Seishiro comes back in to her office with his pretty smile and with him comes a boy with shoulder-length hair as dark as his pretty doe-eyes and she watches as Seishiro kisses the boy's pretty full lips and smiles at him through his long lashes. And Yuuko watches through the next few weeks as Seishiro makes Ashura Ou absolutely smitten with him—an artist, and along comes brilliant portraits and sketches of Seishiro, naked and clothed—and then tosses him back to the art studio after he's bored, because an artist is just too intense for him.

So Yuuko takes Ashura and smiles at him and lets him mope in his special artist way for a while, because she knows that one day, Ashura's going to find someone who'll never get bored of being his muse and who'll inspire him to draw for the gods, just as Clow inspired Yuuko to write for them. And just like that, Ashura becomes a fixed come-and-go, just like Seishiro.

This time, it's not even a few months. It's one week precisely, and Seishiro comes in with a complete model of a young girl—as full bosomed and curved as Yuuko herself—and introduces her as Amaterasu Daidoji. And as usual, Yuuko just watches as he covers her with pretty words and kisses her pretty lips and strokes her pretty hair. Amaterasu is a musician—a cellist—and since Seishiro aspires to be a conductor, he says to both her and the girl that they have so much in common and that isn't she beautiful because to him she's the most beautiful thing on this planet, and because they're in seventh grade Amaterasu loves him and Yuuko just smiles.

And it's just a week later that Amaterasu comes in with her mascara streaking down her face, her sobs silent and withheld and Yuuko welcomes her with open arms and introduces her to Ashura, because now they can be best friends when it comes to commiserating about how much they love and hate the bastard Seishiro Sakurazuka. Amaterasu comes and goes now, too.

Right after that, three days to be exact, Seishiro comes in with a bespectacled boy with dusty blond hair and gentle topaz eyes and this time he's a dancer—all taut torsos and nimble limbs—and Yuuko can tell as Seishiro softly pulls his fingers through the boy's hair, that Yukito Tsukishiro doesn't quite love Seishiro very much at all, and is instead using him as much as Seishiro is using Yukito. Yukito is simply hurting and like other boys his age, thinks that someone else can replace the hole and make the hurt go away. He thinks that just because the piece doesn't fit the hole doesn't mean he can't force it in.

But it only takes another four days to figure that out, and Yukito is off and away. Although, he does come back every so often, because Yuuko knows that Seishiro is unforgettable and Yukito most likely did come to love him in his own way. Still, the dancer, she knows, thinks that the conductor is a bastard all the same.

Now, finally, there's a small break period of two years as Seishiro moves on into high school and adjusts himself in the more fast-paced environment, and Ashura and Amaterasu are gone from their visits for a bit, too. But soon enough, in his sophomore year, Seishiro returns with not one, but four young boys. They're paired as twins, two light and two dark, and Yuuko's mind immediately implodes when it sees the two beautiful blond twins, all grown-up.

It's obvious which one Kyle has attacked, not because that same one showed such signs of scarring, but because the one that he didn't showed even more signs of hurting and guilt. But Yuuko knows that someday someone will come along—for both of them—and something, anything, will set a chain of events off that neither will never forget.

Meanwhile, it seems that Seishiro is taking one by one, and first it's the blond boy that Kyle didn't attack. He's introduced as Yuui Fluorite, and he's the prettiest one of them all—precisely like Seishiro in his pretty smiles and words and gazes. And for a small second, Seishiro even seems to love Yuui as much as Yuui seems to love Seishiro. But it's only a small second, and Yuui soon figures out that he loves Seishiro as Seishiro loves Yuuko. Yuui joins the line right behind Amaterasu.

For even a short while, Fai Fluorite comes in. Seishiro doesn't touch him in a sexual way, because Yuuko knows and sees that Seishiro, for some reason, doesn't think about Fai in that way. Seishiro touches Fai in the same way you would touch the loveliest little baby in all the world. It's almost funny and ridiculous, because for the first time, Seishiro doesn't caress—he cuddles. Seishiro doesn't stroke—he pets. Seishiro doesn't lick—he kisses. But it's somewhat touching, no pun intended, and Yuuko is amused and relieved at the change. But just as they all were, Fai is soon gone, and joins the ever-growing crowd along with his brother.

Kamui Sumeragi is next, and the moment Yuuko sees him, the moment she knows that someday, she'll teach this boy everything she learned for herself in a world made of pen and paper and words. He's only here reluctantly, and whenever Seishiro kisses him, he cringes, because he seems to only be here to watch Yuuko's work rather than because he loves the bastard. So, as one of the quickest ones in Seishiro's record, Kamui is soon gone. By now, Seishiro even has a name: the Maestro.

And then, there's Subaru. Subaru Sumeragi, and when Yuuko sees him, her heart nearly stops—not because of the way he looks, but the way he looks at Seishiro and the way that Seishiro looks _back at him_, which is by far the more important part. Oddly enough, all the others before Subaru were far more special—far more unique. There's nothing remotely different about Subaru when compared to the achievements of the others, and yet Subaru's the one that Seishiro looks at like _that_.

But maybe that's precisely why.

Maybe that's precisely why when Yuuko casually mentions how Seishiro will probably remain with Subaru through college, and how lovingly Seishiro treats him, Seishiro's pretty smile almost disappears into thin air, and the next day, Subaru is walking into Yuuko's office alone and with eyes sad enough to make Attila the Hun cry.

But by then, the Maestro and his little trumpeter aren't the only one with problems. Because by now, Yuuko not only has to sort out the Maestro's bastard-ness and Subaru's stubbornness (and stupidity), but she also has to make sure that a certain bespectacled goalie ends up with his stonily silent forward, and that another forward remains together with his dancer, all the while keeping aforementioned forward's younger sister together with her martial artist while letting her figure out if she might love his twin brother, and trying to make another martial artist realize his soccer captain boyfriend is a prick. But it doesn't end there. She also has to supervise her favorite little angsty artist trying to rescue his super-speshul beautiful blond twins, and make sure that her intern doesn't screw things up with the Maestro's baby brother.

It's quite a lot.

* * *

And almost more than ten years since, she's still just the same as she was when she first saw the picture of those two darling blond boys. Except now, she has an even bigger office, and she's even taken in an intern and she's quite fond of him. He's been with her for some time now, ever since he was a little sixth grader, wondering what it'd be like to try the drugs they were learning about in science class; and then through eighth grader, learning from her _exactly_ what the human reproductive system entailed.

She leans forward onto her desk, stretching out her arms languidly on the surface and cocks her head to one side; she watches as he files through the daily in-pour of requests for her magazine and queries from numerous photographers, most of them begs disguised in whatever dignity they could muster to have her let them participate in an article. He turns around, and his eyebrows disappear into his mussed bangs. "Yes?"

She smiles and says, "Nothing."

"All right, then." He frowns at her in disapprovingly, as though thinking someone of her caliber should be able to refrain from staring without restraint. As Kamui returns to the files on the glass table, she runs her fingers through the side of her stick straight hair thoughtfully.

"So," she continues lazily, "how _is_ Fuuma?"

He sighs and turns back to her yet again. "Can't we do this when it isn't six in the morning? I'm not sure I can put up with this sort of crap _this_ early." His eyes are looking at her irritably, and that just makes her smile wider because she knows she's getting close. And because it never ceases to amaze her the tone which socialites use whenever they're in any form of discomfort—the tone that heavily implies how they're _so sure_ that everyone cares with the utmost _depth_ that they're unhappy, so whatever's happening that makes them so needs to stop just because they're who they are and they can do whatever sort of shit they want to.

She exists to change that. "No. I don't think so. Now, how did he love the poem you so lovingly wrote for him? I bet he congratulated you, didn't he? He should've, you know. It was one of your best pieces yet—very angsty and appropriately dark, but with hints of light." She smiles as he cringes.

"He had one or two questions about it, if that's what you were grasping straws for," he said dryly. "And just so you know, I wrote that damned poem in a nearly pitch black computer lab, stoned, high and after sex."

"What writer doesn't?"

"Please, Yuuko," he sighs again, making to turn around and continue with his work. "Not now. Keeping you company while you prodded me wasn't in the internship description."

"There was a description?" she asks innocently. "I knew nothing about that. I just hired you because I thought you were adorable, just as Mr. Sakurazuka does. Besides, I haven't seen or heard much from your brother lately. How's Little Boy Blue doing? Still blowing his horn?"

Kamui doesn't turn around this time. He pauses for a moment and then says, "He's definitely blowing something, but I'm pretty sure it's not his horn."

She raises her eyebrows. "And you aren't going to stop him? Last year you seemed pretty concerned with him wasting away his life with the Maestro, when he could've been doing so many, many more productive activities, plenty of which include getting completely high with you and Yuui Fluorite."

"At least Yuui knows he's hot and takes advantage of it instead of moping around and chasing after someone who doesn't love him back."

"I'd say that Yuui simply excels at multitasking, seeing as he's doing both simultaneously. And besides, how do you know that our splendid Maestro doesn't love Little Boy Blue? Especially with all the time he takes in blowing his horn—"

"Will you stop _calling_ him that?" Kamui's feathers look immensely ruffled now, and she just smirks into her thermos, as she takes another sip of coffee. "And if Yuui's doing both, I don't see why Subaru can't either. He has just as many guys lining up for him as Fluorite does, so I don't see what's so great about Seishiro, who, frankly, is a jackass and the sole reason why the word bastard is even in the dictionary. His picture is right next to the entry, I swear."

"Why do you love Fuuma?" She peers into her thermos, and smiles at the fact that it's empty.

Kamui snatches it out of her hand and bangs it rather violently on the glass table. He's now standing fully in front of her and looks quite irritated at the human population and perhaps the non-human population and probably trees in general. "That. Is. Ridiculous. Fuuma isn't a destructive bastard, and I'm not one to let someone walk all over me even _though_ he's a destructive bastard. And I don't love Fuuma," he spits. "I just _like_ him."

Yuuko roars, bending backward into her chair, laughing and laughing and laughing until she feels her sides begin to ache. Then she attempts to actually stop and calms down as much as she can, even though she can still feel a giggle jerk through her body every now and then. "Right. Of course you do, sweetheart. Now, could you get me some more coffee? Leave it at the front desk. I have an appointment after this."

He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "But I checked your book—you're free—"

"We're all free," she says infuriatingly, waving him along. "And you're free to hurry up your pace and get me some coffee before I die of dehydration. Now keep walking—you move one foot in front of the other, you know, it's not as difficult as the books make it seem, deary."

He glares burning sunbeams at her before stalking out of the room. She smiles as he disappears around the corner, and just minutes later, from the other side of the hall, appears her favorite of all. Seishiro Sakurazuka comes in just like had nearly a decade ago, and situates himself in the seat on the other side of her desk.

He smiles that pretty smile at her, but over the years, she thinks that it's lost some prettiness and gained some ugliness. It's not quite as pretty as it once was and she knows precisely why, but she's not going to tell him, since she rarely does anything for free and she'll do favors when the apocalypse rolls around. "Good morning. Early wake up call, hm?"

"Not very," he smiles. "I was never asleep."

"Really." She appraises his shirt. "You've got some blood at the hem. It doesn't look—or smell—like you've decided to shower or change, I suppose. Long night? Clubbing?"

"No. Boyfriend-abusing."

"Fun."

"Immensely." He smiles again sarcastically, and this time, it isn't very pretty at all. She tips his head and watches him blink his eyes closed and blink his eyes open. She really does miss his pretty smiles and pretty words and pretty gazes and wishes that if only he'd smarten up a little bit, he would be able to have all those pretty things return to him. If only he hadn't used up all the prettiness for Subaru, only to take them all back and throw them away.

"You know what this reminds me of?" she asks, tapping one long french-manicured nail on her chin.

"No. Do tell."

"It reminds me of one of those BL stories where the top constantly rapes the bottom because he wants the bottom to realize his love for him, even though raping proves love in no way at all, but girls lap it up anyway—fully knowing this—because it's pretty hot either way, and because they usually end up together in the end, since the bottom falls head over heels with his rapist." She smiles broadly.

He smiles right back. "Yes, well, if that happened in this situation, I'd have to shit a brick." She raises her eyebrows. "Because it's not," he continues. "And you know it's not. If life were a BL story, I'd have shot myself by now. And Subaru already loves me so I don't have to do anything to him to get him to do so. I'm trying to get him to _un_-love me."

"You can't get someone to _un_-love you. It's not even a word." She intertwines her fingers on the desk.

"It'll be a word when I'm done. I've done it before, anyhow."

"Those boys and girls never loved you in the first place. Enchanted, enthralled, intrigued, charmed, allured—they're all synonymous with each other, but they have nothing in common with the word 'love', if that's what you're trying to prove. Subaru might have been one of those aforementioned verbs in the beginning, but he's the only one who loves you." She arches an eyebrow and puts her chin in her palm, "Face it, darling, he's the only one who's _insane_ enough to love you."

"Well, then I'll make him sane."

"Are you sure you're just not terrified?" She extricates a magazine from the pile at the side of her desk and tosses it neatly into his lap. "Have you read Kamui's love poem? It's wonderful. Oh, and this, too." She opens her middle drawer and takes out a rather battered piece of paper—crumpled millions of times over. "Little Boy Blue came to talk to me wondering why his darling Maestro hates him so much, and gave this to me to read over. It's not nearly as good as his brother's, of course, but I think you'll like it."

_**All to Myself **_

_You love me, but you love everyone._

_What must I do, until there're others none?_

_Am I not enough to satisfy you?_

_Just tell me what I lack; anything I'll do._

_You don't believe me? Well, then you should._

_I would do for you, what no one else would._

_If you told me to jump on nigh,_

_I would simply ask, "How high?"_

_Tell me to run, I'll ask, "How far?"_

_Ask me to leave; I'll get my car._

_Kiss me once, and I'll immediately heel when you speak._

_You want to screw me into a wall? To the wall I'll press my cheek._

_You can't sleep? I'll stay up with you all night._

_Tell me to stay; I'll never leave your sight._

_But there's still one thing, even for you,_

_That no matter it all, I'll never let you do._

_I won't stand you with anyone else—_

_I want you—I need you all to myself._

"Selfish, isn't he?" she inquires, smiling, knowing just and exactly what he'll answer, because she knows her Maestro darling bastard inside and out, and the prettiness in his smile rose higher and higher back with every stanza his eyes scanned. He looks up from the paper, placing it back onto her desk, indicating that it wasn't his to keep.

"No. He isn't." He smiles. And looking at that smile, she knows that these two have got a long way to go, a lot more tears and pain and screaming and angst and suffering and terrible miscommunication, but you can't have rainbows without rain, and it's the bad that makes the good so good. So she'll just leave this two alone and let them do their thing. As long as neither of them dies, she doesn't really see the problem.

* * *

Besides, she's got a full schedule for the next few years. Between planning photo spreads and getting Yuui with Ashura and doing photo shoots and snapping Fai out of his depression and hiring new editors and breaking up Kurogane and Mioru and getting a new coffee machine and making sure Kamui and Fuuma stay together and figuring out a new cover page for Addictive and getting Watanuki to accept the fact that he's batting for a new team and doing interviews and being interviewed and helping Sakura choose between Fuuka and Syaoran and finishing reports and chaining Touya and Yukito together—

Well, like she's said before, she's got a lot on her plate. But that's all right. She's Yuuko Ichihara. And after all these years, she's still as bewitching as ever.

But…no, wait. Not quite.

She's bWitching.

* * *

_A/N: *wipes forehead* Phew. Quite a chapter, wasn't it? For those of you who read Music To My Ears, you'll know the poem. I made it myself, after I'd made Lovely Terror, since I'm just that weird. It's from All To Myself by Marianas Trench, and ironically enough, a music video to it just came out a few days ago, and it's hilariously awesome, so go watch it. Anyhow, I decided that what with the latest chapters of xxHolic and TRC, as Pockysnightmare has been telling me, we definitely need some Yuuko love. So here it is, and...hope you enjoyed it. By the way, in this "Timeline", Secrets hasn't happened yet. It only went so far as Compelled, that's why there wasn't much mention of KuroFai. But for you who're suffering from KuroFai withdrawal as I am, you'll soon be pleased. Just...keep watching your emails._

_And since I typed up a 5,000 word chapter, I deMAND equal compensation for this. REVIEWS AHOY--_

_*headdesk* Don't shoot me._


	18. S and the Maestro's Story I

S and the Maestro's Story I

Subaru clasped his hands together beneath the sheets. He leaned back against the headboard, resting his scalp on the edge, and stared up at the ceiling. There wasn't a sound in the room, save for his attempted hushed breathing and the more even inhales and exhales of the sleeping young man beside him in the bed. He closed his eyes.

He couldn't believe he'd just done that. He couldn't believe he'd just slept with Akamizu's doctor—who was not only the doctor, but also the professor in charge of the medical department. The only thought that caused him to smile was that at the very least, Yuui would be proud of him. After the zombie state he'd been in last year, Yuui hadn't been very pleased with him at all. But last year, nearly everyone had remained in a state of shock—what with the event that would forever be dubbed as the Fuuka Thing.

It wasn't the most original of names, but they couldn't bear to name it with any words that actually were relevant to what really had happened. It had taken all of them a year—their freshman year at Akamizu—to get over it, and in Yuui's terms, it was a year wasted. Freshman year was the year that newly inducted members of the Holy Trinity were supposed to party their best and hardest, and instead it was spent acting like the undead.

But then again, at least—in Subaru's opinion—it was a relief to themselves and each other that they all at least still possessed enough heart and humanity to give the Fuuka Thing the time and respect it deserved. And then, however, at the start of this very year, the minute Kamui saw the way Kyle—as Akamizu's new doctor—eyed Subaru and the way Subaru eyed him back, the writer had shoved both of them together at every opportunity, and the latest attempt ended in what lay around Subaru right now.

He opened his eyes, cast a glance down at Kyle and sighed. Screwed didn't even begin to describe this situation. Honestly, Subaru didn't even know if he liked Kyle. For one thing, there was the matter of how Kyle had once been Fai and Yuui's guardian, and was therefore probably over a decade older than Subaru himself. Then there was the matter of Fai and Yuui always seemingly avoiding Kyle for reasons that Subaru wasn't supposed to know, and reasons that Subaru seriously _didn't_ know.

But Kamui had, lately, come to strongly resemble a broken record player by way of repeating a sort of supposedly philosophical catch phrase into Subaru's right ear whenever the opportunity arose. It was normally some variation of, "We're in college. Just do it." And this oftentimes caused Subaru to wonder if perhaps Yuui really was influencing Kamui toward a not-so-virtuous path in life.

Unfortunately, virtuous or not, Subaru had a sinking feeling that he should take his brother's advice this time around. He could probably come to like Kyle as time went by, and if not, he needed something to do other than dragging his feet around his brother's room and wearing out the carpet. Moreover, it wasn't like Seishiro was going to talk to him any time soon. Or ever.

Seishiro had never loved him, and hoping that he would was just making more of a soap opera of Subaru's life than it already was. At best, Seishiro would be his friend. At worst…well…they'd already gone there, and frankly, Subaru didn't want to go back. While he'd been in the state he'd been in, he hadn't been able to realize how bad and how deep it had been allowed to get. But in retrospect, it simply made Subaru wince every time he thought about it. It was horrifying.

He didn't want to ever think about it.

But it was hard not to.

It was hard not to because even if Seishiro had done everything out of pure spite and perhaps even boredom—and certainly from irritation—at least Seishiro had been the one touching him. Seishiro had been the one whispering in his ear. Seishiro had been the one taking his hand and spinning their bodies close. Seishiro had been. Seishiro had been. Seishiro. Seishiro. Seishiro.

And Seishiro had been the one giving Subaru absolute shitloads of false hope with ever single out of character the Maestro had done—the time Hokuto had visited still stood out in Subaru's mind. Times like that were the reasons that Subaru sometimes woke up in the middle of the night—sweating from nightmares—and wondered feverishly if Seishiro really might have loved him. Once upon a time. Just maybe. Maybe. Maybe?

No.

And he couldn't blame anyone but himself for ever hoping that. He couldn't even blame Seishiro—the conductor had never given him a reason for false hope. He'd never even told Subaru that he loved him. Well, yes, there'd been more than a million "I want you"s, but never "I love you". Never. And there never would be. Because anything like that out of Seishiro's mouth would be a lie, and no matter how much of a bastard he was, the Maestro never lied. Subaru new firsthand—and he was sure countless other people out there did, too—that Seishiro Sakurazuka would much rather (actually he would love to) tell a fragile-hearted teenager in depression that she might as well kill herself because no one loved her than lie and tell her that someone did.

And if that girl committed suicide, Subaru was also pretty sure that Seishiro would simply bring extra flowers to the funeral.

Because that was just the way Seishiro went about his business, and that was just who Seishiro was—truthful and blunt to the very end, and completely uncaring about what and whom he did. It was about time, in Subaru's eyes, that Seishiro stopped bothering with the façade and went on with his life as he'd always intended to. Without Subaru.

Yet, of course, despite knowing all of this by heart, all Subaru could do was curl his legs against his chest and thump his forehead on his knees. It still didn't matter how many times Kamui had told him or how many times he'd told himself—how many times _everyone_ had told him—Subaru still couldn't stop thinking about how if Seishiro only loved him back, everything would be right. That one errant, stupid, pathetic question that never seemed to leave.

_Why can't he just love me back?_

After over five years, he still hadn't found an answer.

He was beginning to think that he never would. And no matter how much it might hurt, Subaru was also beginning to think that he should start moving on—like, really moving on. So really, perhaps the fact that Kyle Rondart, Fai and Yuui's ex-guardian and Akamizu's new medical professor was currently sleeping off a night of sex and alcohol beside him in bed wasn't such a bad situation.

It would be a good moving on tactic, although the idea that he was about to use a person as a tactic made him more than a little sick inside at how desperate he was becoming. But, it was the truth. He was desperate. He was desperate to scrub Seishiro from every bit of him—inside and out. Subaru wanted no more to do with the Maestro. And this time he wasn't backing out.

When Kyle woke up, Subaru wouldn't put up that it was a one-night stand and walk away like Seishiro had done to so many people out there. Subaru wouldn't do that. Subaru would face Kyle and ask if Kyle himself wanted to continue with this, or if Kyle wanted to be done with the trumpeter, because Subaru really didn't think he could stand any more uncertainties. Anything more in the likes of the Maestro, and the trumpeter was sure he'd die. He couldn't take any more. Neither him nor his body.

Still, even when Kyle did wake up, blinking those enchanting dark eyes up at Subaru and smiling and asking if the trumpeter could so kindly hand him his glasses, Subaru willed himself not to think about how he'd make a roundtrip to hell if only he could watch a different set of dark eyes wake up, and rather than asking him for glasses, drag him right back down to bed for a morning dally.

He'd even take the bruises and cuts, if that was what those dark eyes he wanted so much felt like doing. It didn't matter now, though. Seishiro was long gone and Subaru had survived. It'd been a year, and it was fucking high time that Subaru stopped merely surviving and started _living_.

* * *

_A/N: So I decided to finally put my SeishiroxSubaru bunnies to good use and start writing their storyline. The reason that I have to do this in Impulse is because it happens right in between where Compelled ends and Secrets begins. I'm not doing this in an attempt to suffocate any of you in angst, I swear. Besides, if we do drown, just like a good captain, I'm going down with my ship. Er. Yeah. In any case, in some respects, Subaru is the only one (before Secrets) in the original gang (before Tomoyo and Amaterasu joined, since they're girls, and thus, were still separated in high school) that didn't know about Fai and Yuui's living conditions, meaning that he was basically prime meat for Kyle to grab. _

_Yeeaah......reviews._


	19. The Duke's Thoughts

The Duke's Thoughts

When he thinks about Kurogane You-ou, the boy the exact same age as him with the exact same talent and how they're from the exact same town in the exact same country and with the exact same status of being a socialite, he doesn't know if he wants Kurogane to die a painful, slow, torturous death, or if he's just plain jealous of Kurogane.

Because while Kurogane is everything Senryuu is—only slight better in regards to karate—Senryuu is everything Kurogane isn't, and sometimes he wonders, why then, is it Kurogane who has the better life?

Unlike the Fluorite twins—because to Senryuu it's obvious they don't always mean it when they're smiling—Senryuu isn't lying when he's kind. He just loves humans. He loves humans, and the bad ones just make him love the good ones even more. He loves humans, because he thinks that since his parents—who are your average CEO director and his Botox-absorbing wife only ten times worse—are the epitome of all that's wrong with the human race, he needs to make up for his less than wonderful parentage.

And so he also thinks, that if he's the one who always opens doors for people, pets girls' hair and tells them how pretty they are everyday at school and just in the streets, laughs and smiles with his friends and sometimes even strangers, how come Kurogane—the one who scoffs at girls unless they have "a great set of fucking tits", loves more than often to let doors bounce of people's noses, and glares at everything that moves—is the one with parents who're successful socialites _and_ love him?

How come Senryuu is the one with parents who just think of him as a way to assure that none of their social-climbing friends will get their filthy, unworthy hands on the company after they die?

But really, if Senryuu is being honest to himself, he knows that he doesn't really care at all about Kurogane's parents or his own, because he's fucking done with his parents—he's almost out of college and he'll be out extremely soon.

No, what Senryuu really wants to know is why—if Kurogane so infamously possesses the eloquence of an illiterate Viking, the subtlety and romanticism of a dung beetle, and the outright kindness of Attila the Hun—how come Mioru Aoi loves him so much?

More importantly, why can't Mioru love Senryuu instead?

* * *

_A/N: Just a little something to get your minds whirring for the end of Compelled and the plot of Unveiled. I told you to keep an eye on this guy in Prohibitied, remember?_


	20. Goodbye: M and K

Goodbye: M and K

"This is pot is crap."

"Ah, shut up. It was a bargain."

"Don't fuck with me. You spend five dollars for a fucking bottle of water."

"And? If it's so crap, give it back."

"Hah. Next time, buy better pot. Save the 'bargaining' for the fucking water."

"Oh, shut up. Children should be seen and not heard."

"I can fucking throw you off this rooftop, bastard. Don't get snooty just because you're graduating tomorrow."

"I'll be as damned snooty as I want."

Mioru dodged as Kurogane threw the joint at him. The soccer captain laughed and picked the smoking white stick up, replacing it between his lips as Kurogane made a face at him. "That thing landed on the fucking ground."

"So?" The senior stuck his tongue out. "It's a bargain, remember?"

"Will you stop repeating that fucking fact?" Kurogane thwapped Mioru on the head. "I'm actually trying to be nice tonight, since it's your fucking last day on campus."

They were sitting against the railing of Kuriakiri's rooftop, looking over as the Holy Trinity Dome was being prepared for this year's graduating classes. It was being tested for lighting and sound, glowing orange and soft through the evening air. Kurogane leaned his head back and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of new summer—fresh leaves on the trees and baby grass turning that deep shade of green.

Mioru reoffered the smoke to him. Kurogane opened his eyes and took it between his teeth. He pulled it out with his middle and forefinger. "So where's Fai going to be at this summer? I remember last time you flew all the way to Paris to see him."

Kurogane grinned down at the senior. "No fucking planes this summer. I've just gotta drive a few miles north. He'll be there for a few weeks for a series of benefits."

"Then?"

The martial artist sighed out billows of smoke, and switched the joint back to its owner. "Then it's off to the States for another half a year touring. I don't know if he'll be back in time for next summer. He said that since the Maestro has to see Fuuma graduate, they'll probably be back for the graduation. No word on them staying, though." Kurogane glanced at Mioru. "You?"

"Mm?" The senior carefully appraised ever crease on the joint's skin. "Watanuki and Syaoran are coming with me on the national team. We've been scouted, and Touya and Sorata are already on there. Doumeki and Fuuma though…they decided to go on a regional team or some complicated shit like that." He snorted.

"So what, then?" Kurogane raised his eyebrows. "The two lover boys will be playing against each other?"

"Who? Watanuki and Doumeki? Nah. Regional's something else altogether. I told you it was complicated shit." Mioru looked at Kurogane, and pursed his lips, nudging the martial artist. "What 'bout you?"

"National Karate team," Kurogane shrugged. "Kind of like you."

"Huh." Mioru threw his head back and grinned. "Fai'll like that. Maybe you can arrange stuff so you'll end up in the same country together all the time. Bang before your matches and his concerts."

"Shut up." Kurogane watched the golden specks dilate against the sienna background. The sunset glinted on the almost-black strands of Mioru's hair—making it shine like spider silk. "Amaterasu and you aren't together anymore, huh?"

"And you say _I_ gossip," Mioru sniffed, but he was smiling—albeit only light and sadly.

Kurogane looked at him for another moment before returning his gaze to the setting sky. "You'll find someone better. That chick was always a dyke, anyway. Kinda hot, though, y'know? Her and that soccer girl. They bang like madwomen."

Mioru shook his head, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "What the fuck's wrong with you?"

Kurogane looked miffed. "What the hell's wrong with _you_?" He elbowed the soccer captain. Rolling his eyes, he shifted his eyes to the campus below them, surveying the students milling about the green and shuffling back and forth from the dome. "Doesn't matter. You're hot. All the soccer guys you go against will be running trying to bang you, and they'll forget all about the game, and you'll score a million goals. Then you'll have to kick the ball at _their_ balls to stop them from raping you."

Mioru glanced up at him, and snorted quietly. "Yeah, yeah. Fluorite's made you too nice. Hear yourself? You're trying to _comfort_ me."

Kurogane seemed to think for a minute. Then he nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Just another bone I'll have to pick with him when he gets back."

"And we all know where the other bone is," Mioru sighed, making a great show of looking down at Kurogane's crotch. The martial artist scowled.

"He's not _that_ great of a fuck."

Mioru raised an eyebrow.

"Okay. So he is. You don't have to be so uppity about it."

Silence fell around them as the last vestiges of orange and red sunlight drifted from the horizon. The lights were flickering on all around campus, and Kurogane saw Akamizu sweatshirts down below jogging and walking back to the red rooftops that were his own college—all the way across the trees and the wide road.

It'd been a while since he'd had Mioru's sturdy warmth beside him—the broad shoulders, no matter slightly shorter, prodding against his arm. Until the beginning of this year, he'd spent most nights with a different sort of warmth beside him—a slighter warmth and slenderer shoulders. The sort of shoulders he could hold in one hand.

But it was nostalgia all the same to be alone with Mioru. The entire year had been like that. He didn't quite know how Mioru had felt, but he hadn't really once been tempted to revert to old ways. A part of him would always remember the days when he and Mioru spent every single minute hiding in a nook or cranny to share more than heat, but it felt like a long time ago. An immensely long time ago. Like the Kurogane back then and the Kurogane he was now were two different people.

He knew that even though some people—or most people—still considered Mioru the same brat he was back in high school, he himself knew that Mioru had changed so much, it wasn't even certain if it was a good or bad thing. The Kyle Thing had done plenty. Plenty damage or plenty good, Kurogane didn't quite know.

He just knew that a part of Mioru was still hurting. And he also knew that his being here all the time wasn't helping. It was true that Mioru had sought him out at the start of the year first. But Kurogane had stayed instead of doing the right thing and rejecting.

The thing was…even though Kurogane scoured the news and television and his text messages and phone calls for any sign of Fai returning for an in-country concert—and trying to hide this stalkerish fact from Fai himself—the martial artist couldn't help but be drawn in to Mioru. If he weren't as stubborn as he was, he would even admit to himself that he loved Mioru in the way that Yuui Fluorite seemed to love Kamui Sumeragi.

Kurogane wouldn't go as far as _kissing_ Mioru, the way that the pianist and writer always did, but he would go as far to say that Mioru was his best fucking friend. And he'd missed the soccer captain. Quite a bit.

And really, he wished the doctor bastard weren't already dead, so then he could pummel him slowly to death—first for what he'd done to Fai—and next for what he'd almost done to Mioru, and in a way, what he _had_ done to Mioru. Because Mioru had always been a smarmy, confident bastard—almost to the point of arrogance—but Kyle had wiped that away completely.

So that nowadays, the only thing Mioru was confident about were his soccer skills. Kurogane, throughout this whole year, had wanted so badly to find just one way to convince Mioru that he was still as fucking hot and fucking brilliant as when they were together in high school. That any fucking bastard or bitch would be damn lucky to have him.

But that wasn't really Kurogane's forte. That was more Fai's. Fai, with his articulate words and pretty sentences, could bring Mioru down a few notches on the trauma scale. Hell, Fai had been through fucking worse. If he hadn't had had to busy himself in registering for orchestras and all that other graduating year crap just the year after the Kyle shit, he would've been able to help Mioru.

"You're quiet." Mioru kicked Kurogane's shin. "That's never a good thing."

"Ha ha. I'm actually capable of intelligent thought you know—contemplating and all that deep meditating shit."

"Eloquently put. I'm sure your romantic skills really score you points with Fluorite."

"Y'know what? You really need to learn how to shut up."

Mioru looked indignantly at him. "What? And you don't?"

"Aw, y'see that? That right there was proof that you need to take…like, lessons or something shit on how to punctually shut up." Kurogane shoved the soccer captain's shoulder.

"You're such a fucker."

"Huh. You should see me with Fluorite."

"Aw. Ew. Gross. TMI, really, Kurogane."

"C'mon, we're not in fucking middle school."

"I wish. Fucking in middle school was so much less complicated than fucking in college." Mioru sighed reminiscently.

"Dude, I know. No stupid love and feelings and crap. Just…fuck." But truthfully, Kurogane knew that the only reason it wasn't as complicated back then was because back then, all they knew was bodies. Back then, fucking was just a way of appeasing the boredom—nothing more than something new to play with.

Back then, it'd been more of a case of _ooh, look we can do this and this and this _rather than actually enjoying sex. It'd been mostly experimentation, and even Kurogane had to admit that. Every time he'd had sex in middle school and early high school, all he'd wanted to do was learn what his body could do—because in middle school, your body was all of a sudden something new and scary and undeniably, eventually, utter _fun_. When used right, that is.

And better yet, back then, you learned that someone else's body could be even more _fun_.

Because back then, the body and the heart were one in the same, and when you were younger, you were sort of in love with everyone. Sometimes you just loved on person more than the other, but all in all, a body was a body and you just loved bodies and faces. You couldn't really love a person.

And nowadays, Kurogane wished that it were still that simple.

He was sure that most times Mioru did, too.

But still, he knew that the minute Fai came off that private plane and into Kurogane's arms, the violinist would make his heart beat in that way that pained and pleasured all at once and Kurogane would kiss him and fist his hand in soft, blond hair and in the back of his mind, he'd wish that Mioru knew what it really felt like. Because no matter how much simpler and easier it'd been in middle school, it was just so much better now.

And as he hit Mioru on the head in return for kicking his shin, he just wished that someday soon, the soccer player would have a person who really loved him like he deserved to be loved and showed him exactly what Fai had showed Kurogane—

That although the fucks in middle school were short and fun—the sex in college and beyond were forever and brilliant.

_Later, M._

_Love you, bastard._

* * *

_A/N: Because I just thought that you should know Mioru's not a complete bastard, and that Kurogane did love him--does love him. It's like Yuui and Kamui, only not as sexy, and just more adorable. Plus, I thought I should fill in the blanks to what happens after Fai graduates and stuff, since Unveiled will take place after all of them have graduated and they're all "adults", since the teenage socialites is completed with Compelled, and the college socialites is done with Secrets. Adult socialites and celebutantes are a whole different story, see. They've got all of their past to hide, because their parents are no longer responsible for hiding it for them, and since they're no longer minors, anything can be used. Anyhow, enough rambling. _

_Reviews because this entire chapter felt like a ramble....0_0_


	21. S and the Maestro's Story II

S and the Maestro's Story II

Have you ever wanted to stop eating a certain kind of food? Sometimes, the doctor will request—strongly—that you refrain or completely go off foods that include dairy or high content of fat. Perhaps even specific foods, as in that one sort of chocolate pastry that you love so much, or those Pocky sticks that you just absolutely adore. And when you return home and look through your pantry and you see those Pocky sticks and that chocolate pastry, you tell yourself that you'll have just one—just one last one—before you heed the doctor and stop.

And you do. You just have one, and once you stop and swear you won't have any more—you'll just let them stay in your pantry until the doctor takes back his ban—you don't. You walk away and go about other things.

But then, as you go about your daily business around the house, cooking in the kitchen, you open your pantry to grab some sugar, some chips, and you see those two sweets lying right there besides, and you think that if you have just one of either one of them, it wouldn't hurt you right? The reason that the doctor told you to stop eating them was because there was too much sugar in them. And since you've already been fasting from them for nearly two weeks, you think that it's all right if you have one. Just a bit. Just one wouldn't hurt. Everything in moderation, right?

Even though the doctor told you to absolutely swear off of them, it'd be all right if you just had a bit, right? Really, a lot of foods you eat anyway have sugar in them, so what does it matter if you eat one of these? You're going to get sugar in anyway, so just a little bit wouldn't make any difference, right?

And so you take one—one Pocky stick, just one, and a little crust off of that pastry that you've been saving. It feels so good to have them simply in your mouth. To have the chocolate and the flakiness of the pastry melt between your lips, and the hard, Pocky stick crunch from the slightest pressure of your teeth. It's just been so long, and you don't realize how much you missed it until you tasted it.

It _has_ been long, hasn't it? And you've been doing so well, too. So…so it'd be all right if you had just one _more_, wouldn't it? Just one more, and then you'll stop, you swear it to yourself. Just this one more—not even one calorie, you bet—and you'll stop for the next year. Maybe longer. You'll even throw the box and the pastry bag away. Honest to God.

And you do. You take one more, and then you shut the pantry doors and step away.

Except you don't throw neither the box nor the pastry bag away, because you think—you _know_—that it's a great waste of food, and they're probably children starving in Africa that would literally kill to get their hands on one single crumb of either of those sweets.

Besides, they're far from their expiration date, and when the doctor does remove his ban on them, you don't want to have to waste good money buying more of them if you've already got them here in front of you. It's better just to save them, because it isn't like you're going to eat anymore, y'know?

But before your next doctor's appointment, you end up finishing the whole lot. And not only that, you ended up buying more and finishing those, too, under the pretense that you were only getting ready in the case that your doctor said you were no longer banned from having them.

And in the end, the doctor finds out and has no choice but to condemn you to another segment of the year without those foods. Of course, the doctor, he can't assure that you won't repeat what you've done. And he can't assure that you'll get any better—whether it be the amount of sugar in your blood or any other medical figment that must be adjusted—because he isn't your warden. He isn't there to strap your hands behind your back every time you relent to your temptations.

This cycle won't stop until you put your foot down. Until you throw away every single thing that the doctor forbids you from eating. Until that certain shelf in your pantry. Until you absolutely forbid your own self from ever even thinking about drifting anywhere near those foods. It will never stop, and it'll just go on and on and on. You have to make a choice. Whether you value mere foods over yourself—your health, your wellbeing, and essentially, possibly, your life.

* * *

Subaru bit his lip and uncertainly traced the edge of the cubicles near the east door of the Glass. He was trying to remember if he'd yet re-registered his trumpet into the Glass's records. The admissions board had had to change around the locations because so many of the seniors that'd left last year were musicians, and to acquire the correctly sized cubicles for the incoming freshmen of this year, they'd had to rearrange everyone who was already presently in attendance—Sacreds included.

And although re-registration was as simple as filling out a form at the admissions building across campus, most students were too lazy to show up in person, and requested (coerced) a more willing freshman to do it for them. Fai and Amaterasu certainly took no time in doing so. Subaru highly suspected that the only reason Yuui didn't was because he was a pianist—in that case, only he himself had to fill out the form to reserve a cubicle for the sake that he was a musician and had to have a cubicle in order to be registered as a music major.

This meant that Subaru was alone in the regard that he hadn't re-inputted his trumpet in. And this meant that his trumpet and student ID were still categorized as "blank" in the records office—in short, it meant that his trumpet was dusting over in the Glass's less than glamorous storage closet. Along with his music sheets and theory books that would've else been stacked neatly in his cubicle, tucked cozily beneath his trumpet case.

He only had two hours before he had to depart to meet Kyle down by the medical building. It was the weekend, and as was the custom, Subaru would usually spend Saturday at Kyle's house and Sunday clubbing Hexagon with the Sacreds.

Subaru slid his cell phone open, and checked the time. He sighed, placing the cold-metal tip against his jaw's edge. He had to rehearse a part that he was playing for the New Year's benefit that Kuriakiri was holding for one foundation in Africa or another. It was a chamber orchestra arrangement, so it was quite small and he had the second trumpet part. He'd be going head on head with a senior from Kuriakiri, and he wasn't about to get shoved flat onto his face by the senior's performance.

But there wasn't enough time for him to adequately rehearse and re-register his trumpet. And the deadline was in two days. He wouldn't have time in the next two days to return and register. He could use a freshman…but…no. He shouldn't. Most freshmen already had enough hazing going on from Yuui—either exhausted from being pounded into the floor by Yuui, or being seduced to pound Yuui into the floor. It was difficult to get Yuui moaning. Or rather, it simply took endless surpluses of _energy_.

And hormones. Plenty of those.

He slid his phone back into place and laid it onto the table before him. And then he glanced up to relieve yet another sigh.

Subaru's breath stilled.

"Oh. Don't stop your brooding on account of me," Seishiro waved a hand dismissively, and stepped through the doorway. The Maestro passed Subaru without a second glance, as he headed for the music sheets reserve at the back of the Glass. "I'm just stealing some theory books, since Yuui asked me so kindly."

Every memory. Every pain. Every hurt and tear. Every ounce of _I love you, don't leave me, I'll do anything. _Every rush of lust. Every heat of comfort. Every and all of that had swept through him when Seishiro's shoulder had brushed against his, as the Maestro headed back to the reserve.

And yet.

And yet, Subaru simply responded—the words falling out of his mouth with such ease—his tone clean and drenched in humor, "Yuui has the ability to ask kindly?"

Seishiro turned around and smiled, one of his hands holding a hardcover book to the light, tainted red by the stained glass walls. "He has the ability to coerce exceptionally, was what I meant to say. You can tell the coercion has gotten through so quickly. But you never know—he might surprise us one day."

It frightened Subaru that this felt so normal. So perfectly right. This was precisely why he hadn't allowed himself—and had begged to Kamui—not to allow Seishiro alone in a room with him. He was terrified that something like this might happen. Because unbeknownst to the others, this was how badly he had loved Seishiro.

_No. Loved. Not 'had' loved. Just loved._

But that didn't matter now, right? It didn't matter. He was with Kyle now. Seishiro no longer factored into the equation. Seishiro didn't even _care_ for him. He hadn't tried to chase after Subaru, because that was what the Maestro wanted all along. For Subaru to be gone. To be out of his sight and out of his life. If anything, what they had now was strictly as colleagues—as fellow students and members of the Holy Trinity, as conductor and trumpeter.

Subaru laughed, his eyebrows gathering at the middle, raising upward. "He's done hazing, then? Usually he would be too preoccupied in bed—or wherever else he normally has them. I imagine he wouldn't want to make Fai's ears bleed."

Seishiro balanced three books on his right palm and set them down beside Subaru's cell phone. "Really? What with the Task those two came up with? I s'pose."

The trumpeter felt the Maestro's eyes sweep over his body—felt the encompassing heat that accompanied the moving gaze. This was what he hated about Seishiro. The fact that he could make Subaru feel like this, no matter how much Subaru didn't want this any more. Though in reality, Subaru had no one to blame but himself. Seishiro wasn't lusting after Subaru—therefore, the conductor's gaze couldn't be held in fault. Subaru was merely ridiculous when it came to Seishiro.

"It was nothing short of what anyone expected," Subaru shrugged one shoulder, and his fingers began toying with his phone—twirling it around the table and spinning it like a top. "Though, I think it still gave me and Kamui a heart attack when we saw the video sent to us. I think everyone felt like that."

Seishiro caught Subaru's fingers, setting the phone still. "You know, it's going to break if you keep playing hockey with it. Yuui's phone went down the same way. And Fai did it to his phone just so he had an excuse to get that model that won't come out for another five years."

Of course Seishiro would know the detailed going-ons of his main attraction. The reason all the tickets to his Circus were sold out night after night. And of course he would mention them to Subaru.

The Maestro smiled, his eyes closing up and he swiftly intertwined his own fingers with Subaru's—removing the trumpeter's hand completely from the cell phone. "If you want a new phone, you can just ask—you don't have to mutilate the current one. What sort do you like?" Seishiro opened one eye teasingly through the smile.

Subaru's smile had been wiped clean from his face—replaced, instead, with an awfully confused expression. "I…what?" All he could think of was that Seishiro was too close to him—not enough distance. A dangerous proximity.

"What sort of model would you like?" Seishiro tipped his head and squeezed softly around Subaru's hand, his fingers impressing against the trumpeter's knuckles. "I s'pose you could get one like Fai's, but it's just new—it's quite overrated in my opinion. I think a Blackberry would suit you quite nicely, but then Yuui would—"

"I-I don't need a new phone." The words came out of his mouth frightened. "Aren't you just going to buy them for Fai and Yuui?" His throat was uncomfortably tight, his eyes were too hot, and his chest hurt to a point where his hands itched to grasp it in a vain attempt to ease the pain. Because of course, of course the Maestro always proved him wrong—whenever Subaru finally found spoken or written proof that the Maestro just loved Fai and Yuui, Seishiro always proved him dead wrong. Or lied, and fooled around with Subaru, as he proved him dead wrong.

Seishiro raised his eyebrows, but Subaru could see that it was a distraction to hide the flash that ran through the conductor's eyes at Subaru's words and Subaru's tone. "Fai and Yuui can buy their own phones." He picked up Subaru's phone and held it to eyelevel. "And it's obvious you don't _need_ a new phone, but don't you want one?"

"I…even if I _did_…" And then, the real question rose to Subaru's lips, ready to fire, but not quite willing—not willing at all, actually. So instead, it came out soundlessly, just dusting over his lips—

_Why?_

Even if only just mouthed, Subaru knew by the tiny change in Seishiro's face, that the Maestro understood. But all the trumpeter received as an answer was just a gathering of Seishiro's eyebrows and a continued gaze. And all this time, Subaru just now only realized that his hand had been firmly ensconced in Seishiro's. Just now, did he take time to notice how beautiful and right and brilliant their hands were fitted together.

But it was wrong. It was wrong because to Seishiro, it meant absolutely nothing. And to Subaru, it meant everything.

He pulled his hand out as gently as he could, stood up, grabbed the sheet music and headed for the door.

* * *

It wasn't until Subaru was on the tiled floor in a bathroom stall in the admissions building, ordering himself not to cry, not to throw up—not to show any expressions, and not to let anyone know that this happened—that he realized one very, horrible, foolish, deadly mistake he'd just made.

He'd left his cell phone in the Glass.

He'd left his cell phone with Seishiro Sakurazuka.

And now, someway and somehow—and someday _soon_—he had to get it back.

* * *

_A/N: FINALLY. I GOT THIS FREAKING CHAPTER UP. *major headdesk* I was torn at first if I should actually research some cholestrol thing for the metaphor, but I decided that I'm too lazy a bum to do that, and it's summer vacation. So I went with the easy (and probably medically incorrect) way out. And yet, I want to be a doctor (an obstetrician) in life. I wonder how that'll turn out. Anyhoo, I haven't even started on the next chapter of Compelled yet, so you can all throw darts at me for that. HOWEVER, I am a good way through the next Prohibited chapter. And, if you go to my profile, I've got an update. Again, just saying, but my updating with Rule is super sketchy. It's not a definite thing that I'll continue it, but I still might update it whenever I feel like writing. The reason that I have so many fics still open is that my writing moods are fickle. If I just have Compelled, then I'll be writing marathon angst. If it's just Prohibited, it's marathon mystery/action. And I just can't deal with that. Same goes for Rule, marathon history and proper colonial speech--which really kills summer vacation, since it's like being in school, like literature, english, and history class all thrown into one. Impulse is a variety, but it's still kinda blurgh. _

_Anyway, regarding this chapter. *bows* I hope you enjoyed the angst. I certainly did. No really, I did. At times, writing this, my chest literally hurt. It's weird. But it was good, 'cause I got really into the angst. _

_So anyhow, I was rewatching the second half of Death Note because I never finished it, and I realized that I will probably never write a DN or a Code Geass fic because their characters are way too smart for me. I'd try to sound smart while writing in one of their thoughts, and I'd fail epically. Maybe Code Geass, I actually might (since it's one of the gayest anime out there, and not 'gay' as in 'bad'--gay as in, well _gay_) because the characters aren't so much smart and just messed up. And I can do messed up. Death Note, however....no. Just no. I wish I could, since they have HOT bishies, but DN is one of the ones I'd rather just let people who're already English majors do the writing and I read. As an almost-high-schooler, I'm still waaaay too intimidated. _

_And for kicks, if anyone wants to spurn some advice onto my pathetic self, here's what I've been assigned to read for English: To Kill A Mockingbird, and The Chosen. Any thoughts? I welcome spoilers. _

_Wow. That was the longest author's note I've written in a long time. *headdesk*_


	22. Blue Bagels

**01: Bagel**

Kamui and Yuui have a routine. A routine they've kept up since they first met each other—or rather, since they've first had sex with each other. It's a routine that they developed when they were _still_ having sex with each other. It happened because whenever Yuui was on the bottom, he would wake up inevitably on the wrong side of the bed—no pun intended—and starving for breakfast. And somehow, Yuui had the power to push his mood onto whoever was near him at the moment, and that just so happened to be Kamui.

So that left Kamui in a rather foul mood as well.

And the only thing that Yuui ever seemed to crave in the mornings was bagels. Meaning, that bagels it had to be. Whenever there weren't any bagels and it was the morning after Yuui had bottomed, Kamui was left with either sneaking into the maid's quarters (naked) and asking them to buy bagels, or sneaking out himself (tired and freezing and sticky) and buy them himself.

In time, it was amended by permanently fixing bagels forever on the Sumeragi grocery list that was sent weekly to the maids after the ritual of being triple checked by Mr. and Mrs. Sumeragi, Kamui, and Subaru.

Not long after, but long enough, Kamui found himself smiling quietly to himself when Fuuma—naked and sticky and _hot_—wandered back into the bedroom and asked, bemused, why there was nothing in the pantry downstairs but bagels.

**02: Blue**

Kurogane hates a lot of things. And most of these things that he hates happened to him when he was an elementary school child. Probably because he hates children nowadays. But if he was being honest, he would say that he just feels fucking sorry for the little nightmares. Especially if they had to go through what he did.

A spectacular fucking example would be the questions that you were asked once you first started school.

_What's your name, sweetheart?_

_Did you tie your shoes all by yourself?_

_What's your favorite food?_

_How about you tell us all about your family?_

_Do you have any pets? How many?_

_What's your favorite color?_

How would he fucking know what his favorite color was? Why would he even have a favorite color? He had a favorite punching bag—wasn't that enough? What was the use of having a favorite color, anyhow? Perhaps so you would know to get all of your clothes in that one color, and therefore wouldn't have to bother spending an hour to pick out what you were going to wear in the morning (like a certain violinist, he knew).

But aside from that, there was really no point. Not really.

However, if you were to ask Kurogane nowadays what his favorite color is, he would undoubtedly reply without inflection: "Blue".

He'll just leave it to you to figure out why.

**03: Shirt**

Being a musician, Fai has heard more than his lifetime fair share of beautiful, astounding music. Being a violinist—the instrument that gets more melodies in the piece than no—Fai has heard more than his lifetime fair share of sweet, heartrending passages.

But as he lies in bed, naked, hands behind his head and staring happily at the ceiling, he thinks that he's never heard a more beautiful sound than the one currently shaking into his ears. _("Fluorite, you stupid fucker, did you hide my shirt __**again**__?")_

**04: Nail**

"It won't go _in_."

Syaoran's ears rise as he listens to his brother try to finish his karate trophy shelf by himself instead of asking a butler to do it. What makes the situation more amusing for Syaoran to listen into—or more exasperating—is that Fuuka asked Sakura to finally come over and help after two weeks of frustration.

"Sure it will," comes the gymnast's ever-optimistic chirp.

"No, it seriously, won't. I bought the heaviest hammer in the shop, and the biggest drill, and it won't go in." A sigh. "Maybe it's the wrong-sized nail."

"The directions are in Swedish, so we're not going to get any other clues other than the one we have now. And that's that this nail looks the most like the one in the picture stage we're on. See?"

"I know, but it's still not going in. I've tried, you've tried, my butler's tried, my dad's tried, Syaoran's tried"—it was true, he had, and it was the meanest nail in the world—"and it won't go in."

"Well…" It seems that even life-cheerleader Sakura was starting to run out of optimistic phrases in this situation, from the tone Syaoran heard. "Um, all right, look at it this way. Last night you said that"—a pause, which Syaoran could almost see during which Sakura was pointing down at his twin's crotch—"wouldn't go in, but it did."

Syaoran feels that a little part of him choked to death at that moment in his life. He has never been able to stomach an instruction manual since.

**05: Knife**

The first time—all the way back in freshman year at Fuki—that Yuui catches Ashura in their kitchen, sitting on a bar stool, and laughing quietly as the artist holds up the knife for Fai to lick the jam off, it feels like both his twin brother and Ashura are holding the knife into Yuui's chest.

**06: Bread**

Fai loves food. He loves all _kinds_ of food. And he probably wouldn't even mind eating something that's still moving if it tasted good enough. Which is exactly the point that needed to be gotten across. Fai doesn't mind eating anything—as long as it wasn't too hazardous—as long as it tasted good. And since taste is immensely subjective, Fai's opinion of "good taste" was anything that was full of flavor—and sweet. Very sweet.

Yet, even after watching Kurogane tear into a baguette with his teeth (no jam, or butter, or cream cheese or _anything_—the mad man), Fai can't help but pulling himself up by the athlete's shoulders and kissing him—tasteless bread and all—and thinking that maybe he needs to update his definition of good taste: Fai doesn't only not mind eating anything that tasted good; he now also doesn't mind eating anything as long as he's eating it from Kurogane's mouth.

* * *

_A/N: This is what you get when the SeishiroxSubaru angst bunnies start exploding, and I NEED to go on an angst marathon, but I can't, because it would turn out much better if I posted the end of Compelled, and you had their storyline to read in Impulse after what happened in Compelled, so it's chrological, and something nice an angsty to eat while I whip up Unveiled. So until then, here's some filler. _


	23. S and the Maestro's Story III

S and the Maestro's Story III

Seishiro stood in the doorway of the editorial room in Akamizu, watching as the easily most infamous person within a two-hundred mile radius blew smoke from her perfectly painted lips and typed away at exactly what made her so easily infamous. The dark eyes turned behind thick lashes and met with glowing, syrupy gold. "Are you just going to stand there?"

The Maestro smiled and closed the door behind him, flicking on the lock, and walking forward to take the seat beside her. "Of course not. That would be discourteous of me." He slung his book bag onto the floor, leaning it against the leg of his chair. "And you know that I strive to be nothing but an utter gentleman."

"Is that right?" Yuuko drawled, drawing out the smoke from her lips and letting it pop into the air. "I'm sure Little Boy Blue would know _all_ about that. Like the way you so gentlemanly crushed his heart? Y'know, and the absolutely courteous way you crushed his body while you were at it?"

Seishiro's smile froze into place. "Could you stop calling him that?"

"Well, that's what he is to you, isn't he? Someone to blow your horn?" She looked like she wanted nothing more than to continue on like this. Positively comfortable with keeping one eye and all of her fingers to her work, and the other eye and her mouth to Seishiro.

He ignored that last jibe—no matter how much it just stabbed him—and dug a small, white box from his book bag and slid it across the little space that the computers and keyboards left on the elongated table. "Actually, I want your opinion on this."

She raised an eyebrow, perfectly French-manicured fingernails scraping into the opening and pulling out the cardboard flap. Her eyes widened as she pulled out the lump of bubble wrap and began to unravel. Soon, in her hands, lay a black and blue rectangle, curved in some places and angled straight in others. "Sidekick LX," she said, impressed. "Someone's ambitious." Her eyes were wicked. "Or someone feels like they really fucked things up."

"I did, didn't I? As you so kindly remind me every time we see at each other." Seishiro restrained himself from yanking the appliance right from her hands. "Now, if that's all your opinionated self has to offer for the cell, then please replace it into the box. I have class."

Yuuko snorted. "Like you've ever cared if you were late. I'm not sure what you've deluded yourself into thinking, but the professors go by _your_ time—not the other way around."

"Maybe I want to get there early so I have the span to leave early?" Seishiro suggested casually.

"And why would we want to leave early?" She daintily rewrapped the phone in its bubble casing, before tucking it into the box and sliding it over to Seishiro.

He opened the leather flap of his book bag and pushed the box back in. "Maybe I have to meet someone."

"Huh. Like you ever cared about being on time for that either." Her eyes followed Seishiro, as he stood up and pushed his chair in, heading straight for the door, book bag slung across his body. "Must be an important meeting." She lowered her voice and her eyelids. "Or an important someone."

Seishiro just smiled. "I'll see you later."

* * *

Subaru knocked on the door—a steady three knocks in hope that maybe his heart rate could be encouraged to follow the beat. Rather than vice versa, since that would mean that he knocked the door with the ferocity of a battering ram. He knew that he could've brought someone with him—Kamui or Kyle or Yuui or Fai—he could've even requested that they meet somewhere, but just reading that email saying that Subaru needed to get his phone back had been hard enough. He didn't have the…he just couldn't reply to it.

So he stood back and waited for the door to open. When it did, he was met with Seishiro's surprised eyes. Seishiro—looking perfect and fresh as he always did. "Ah…Subaru. I was about to ask you to meet me in the Glass to give your phone back."

Subaru's eyebrows went up. "Oh. Why?" Then he felt it again—that feeling every time he saw Seishiro; the feeling of having a fist around his heart, squeezing mercilessly whenever errant thoughts ran through the trumpeter's mind. Like the one running through it now. The thought that maybe Seishiro didn't want Subaru in his dorm. Not after all that'd happened.

Seishiro gave him an odd, little half-smile. The fist tightened again. "Well. I thought that to be fairly obvious." The fist was choking him. "You don't want to be in my dorm after _that_, don't you?"

The fist was absolutely suffocating—it squeezed and squeezed and it _hurt_, but he didn't love Seishiro. He _shouldn't_—it was useless, anyway. "It was almost two years ago," Subaru whispered. "It's fine. I'm already here anyway."

The Maestro seemed to sigh, that small, sad smile still on his face. "All right, then. If you say. Come in." He stepped aside, and held the door open for Subaru to pass through.

It was all just as Subaru remembered. No different than that last terrible time he was here. And when he stepped through the doorway, he could suddenly see every single place Seishiro fucked him in—fucked him on, fucked him against; _hurt_ him on, _hurt_ him against. Because all the places Seishiro loved him on, loved him against, loved him in—they were all such a long time ago, and they were all not here. College brought nothing for Subaru in regards to Seishiro. Middle school, high school…those were the memories Subaru wanted to stay in. Seishiro's house, Subaru's own house, Fuki. That was where Seishiro had loved him.

But not here. Not in this dorm—not at Akamizu.

Still, as Subaru sat down on the settee near the TV, his eyes scanning the unit, something in his heart—the part that wasn't being pummeled by the fist—thought differently.

_What about the bathroom?_

_Don't say he didn't love you there. Think. Remember._

That was just it. Subaru didn't want to. He didn't want to remember how Seishiro had been kind in between the hurts. Because when Seishiro was kind, he was gentle. And he didn't want to remember those times, because then he would keep holding on—he would keep hoping, and he didn't want to. It hurt to keep hoping. Subaru would never be too tired to hope—but it just hurt so much.

Seishiro closed the door, snapping the lock. He turned to the trumpeter. "Do you want anything to drink?" Subaru watched as the conductor crossed over and came to stand in front of him. "Scotch, Prosecco, whiskey, rum…coffee?"

Subaru had to let the smile edge on his face at being reminded of how Seishiro had always loved to drink himself silly midday—any time of the day, really. "No, I'm fine."

And just as the fist had begun to take it easy, Seishiro knelt in front of him, looking up into Subaru's face—_too close_—eyes kind and gentle and oh-so-very careful at how they gazed. "Really?" One hand rested on Subaru's thigh—lightly and warm. The fist was so tight it was nearly splitting his heart in half.

_Please don't touch me. Don't touch me like you love me. 'Cause you don't._

And somehow, Seishiro's expression shifted at something that he seemed to see on Subaru's. The Maestro smiled halfheartedly and withdrew his hand soon after, not waiting for a reply. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again, 'kay? Here, wait a bit. I'll go get your phone for you." His fingers ruffled Subaru's hair as he stood and aimed for the bedroom.

Subaru thought that the fist had probably just squeezed so tight that his heart imploded, because he could no longer feel any tightness—just searing, hot pain. Or just something searing and hot and smoldering in general.

_Won't do what? Won't touch me? Won't hurt me? _

_Won't act like you love me?_

He looked up when Seishiro returned with his cell phone in hand.

Only it wasn't his cell phone. Subaru dumbly held up his hands and let Seishiro plop the unfamiliar appliance into them. "This isn't my cell," the trumpeter stated obviously, staring at the phone. Seishiro sat down beside him—the familiar body so close.

"I know. It's the Sidekick LX," the Maestro said softly. "Like it?"

"Where's _my_ phone?"

"I had it melted," Seishiro said cheerily.

Subaru blinked. "_Why?_"

"So you couldn't ask for it back." The conductor put his hands around Subaru's and closed the trumpeter's fingers over the cell phone. "Keep it, all right? I was going to get you the Blackberry just to spite Yuui, but I thought this one suited you more. And you haven't answered my question yet—do you like it?"

"Well…" Subaru really didn't quite know what to say. _Really._ First of all, his old cell phone no longer existed. And second of all, he hoped that all of his data had been transferred. And third of all—

If faced with enough pressure, could a heart combust?

"Oh," Seishiro said sheepishly, "I put all of your contacts and things in there, too. So don't worry about it"—probably mistook Subaru's horrified face for something than what it was meant to be for—"and try it out. If you don't like it, hand it over and tell me the model you want, y'know?"

No. Subaru really didn't know. All he knew was the answer to his previous question. That, yes, a heart could certainly combust if faced with enough pressure.

* * *

_A/N: First off, check my Updates if you haven't already. There's a lot of stuff you need to know, and I don't want to type it all here. Secondly, if you've read Naruto (who hasn't?) and don't hate it so much, check out my new fic, Watch This Space. This is the first and probably last time I will ever tell you to read something other than what you're reading now by choice. It's just very special to me. And thirdly, the playlist for the Secrets series is up. The link is on my profile under my latest Update. Fourthly and lastly, the three songs for Subaru and Seishiro's storyline that I use by listening on a loop for writing are: Waking Up In Vegas by Katy Perry (maybe that's just because it's new to me and has been stuck in my head for the past week), Here We Go Again by Demi Lovato (make any stereotypical she's-a-14-year-old-girl-of-course-she-likes-that-kind-of-crap assumptions and I'll blowtorch you, because my favorite bands are Skillet and Red, damn it--it's just a really good SeishiroxSubaru song, all right?), and Far Away by Nickelback. Here We Go Again is from Subaru's POV, and Far Away is Seishiro's._


	24. S and the Maestro's Story IV

S and the Maestro's Story IV

Seishiro raised an eyebrow as a certain blond pianist took a seat on the barstool beside him. He suspended his Scotch to eye-level, mockingly toasting Yuui. The sophomore smiled angelically and tilted his head. Yuui turned slightly toward the bartender and said, "Bourbon on the rocks, please."

The Maestro looked faintly amused. "Lovely choice. Very you."

"Thank you." Yuui leaned up to press his lips against Seishiro's cheek, before stealing a sip from the conductor's drink. "I'm glad you think so." He relaxed back against the counter as the bartender slid the bourbon toward him. The pianist gestured with an incline of his head toward the dance floor. "You never were a dancer."

Seishiro chuckled, his eyes never straying from the writhing, thrashing bodies under the flaring lights. "You, however, were. And are, if you'd stop with your self-imposed mourning phase."

"I'm not mourning."

"Sure. The black hoodie movement doesn't mean anything at all." Seishiro watched as Yuui knocked back half his drink in one gulp.

"It doesn't," Yuui said defensively. "Besides, I'm not the one who's been staring like a stalker at Little Boy Blue dancing all night long."

"If Ashura were here, you would be."

"And if Kyle were here, you'd be glaring daggers at him, too, huh?"

"I never glare. It's not nice."

"Well, you have your own version of a glare. And it's just as unpleasant."

Seishiro shrugged.

Yuui narrowed his eyes at him. "Since when do you wear glasses?"

"Since fourth grade. And then I got contacts." The conductor grinned slightly. "I never went back. But my eyes have been a little irritable lately, so I went to my optometrist and she said to take a short break. Bring back Maestro Four-Eyes for a while, y'know?"

"Wow. That sucks." The pianist regarded the spectacles. "And they're those stupid Harry Potter ones, too." Yuui smiled and tilted his head. "Though, y'know…the megane thing kinda suits you. Very…doctor-ly."

"Never say the word doctor in front of me."

"Mm hm. I'm sure it's a sore subject. What with Subaru being screwed by a doctor and all. On a daily basis."

"You mean nightly."

"That, too."

Seishiro blinked at Yuui's laughing eyes. And then promptly turned to the bartender. "Another, please."

* * *

"Hey," Fai whispered into his ear, smiling. "He's watching."

Subaru opened his eyes and breathed in Fai's scent. The trumpeter had always preferred to keep his eyes closed when dancing—the music thrumming beneath his skin, the lights glaring just before the thin vein of his eyelids, and the bodies heating against his. It was just a recent acquirement that he'd found dancing with Fai was nearly as well as dancing with Kamui. "No he isn't. Stop looking." His whisper was nearly inaudible to his own hears amongst the booming music.

Fai's hands were grasping just underneath Subaru's shirt, and Subaru had one hand tangled in the violinist's hair and the other hooked through his belt loop. Their bodies had not a centimeter of space between them—Subaru's hip against Fai's crotch. Fai laughed breathily in the trumpeter's ear. "He's been watching. Thinks we're hot, y'know?"

Subaru felt the fist give his heart a preliminary squeeze, and in reaction, he grasped Fai just a little bit tighter. "No. He probably just thinks you're hot." Fai thrust against Subaru's hipbone, and the trumpeter gasped just in time for the violinist to capture his lips and breath all in one go.

"This'll get him up and rocking, don't you think?" Fai laughed into the kiss, and Subaru's eyebrows went up—whether in amusement or exasperation, he himself couldn't quite decide. "Hey, hey. How about we put on a show for him?"

"A show?" Subaru heard his voice rise in trepidation.

"You know what I mean." Fai grinned, and popped the top buttons on his shirt. Subaru watched with something akin to horror and curiosity all mixed into one, as Fai took his hands off of the trumpeter's body long enough to ruffle the blond hair and adjust his shirt so that it fell back slightly from his shoulders. "C'mon," the violinist whispered encouragingly—seductively—and brought Subaru out with another suggestive smile. His hands were unbuckling Subaru's belt before the trumpeter could stop him.

"Fai—"

"Won't be needing this," Fai gave him a grin that displayed all of his front teeth, yanked the belt out, spinning it above their heads, before throwing it into the sea of people surrounding them. He knelt at Subaru's waist, gripping the trumpeter's jeans, and shimmying them down low. "That's _much_ better."

Subaru blinked, horrified—really horrified, now. "But—"

"Oh, yes." Fai seemed to tilt his head up in afterthought. "I almost forgot. Me, too, right?" He unbuckled his own belt and slid it through the loops, tossing it away just like he'd done with Subaru's, and pulling his pants down at least twice as low. His eyes went back to Subaru. "It's hard to improvise on the dance floor, huh?" He pouted his lips to the side, thoughtfully, as he seemed to regard the trumpeter's clothes. "Ah. Here." Fai leaned in, lips against Subaru's ear and whispered, fingers plucking playfully at the collar of the trumpeter's shirt, "you have an under shirt, right? Take this one off."

"_Excuse me?_"

But Fai was already laughing and unbuttoning the shirt from Subaru's body, peeling it from him, rumpling and throwing into the air what probably had an equal amount of monetary value to a supply of food great enough to feed an average family of four for two weeks.

Subaru was left in his thin, sleeveless, white shirt. He was wearing less than Fai, in some terms. But apparently, Fai thought that more than perfect, as Kamui and Ashura were holed up all the way back in their dorms on pain of having to finish five projects each—meaning that Subaru's brother couldn't see him, and Fai wasn't the one being displayed. Subaru was.

Displayed for what, Subaru really didn't want to think about. Or rather, more accurately, displayed for _whom_.

"Now," Fai murmured sultrily into the underside of the trumpeter's jaw, the violinist's hands on the expanse of skin stretched over Subaru's stomach, "Dance with me."

* * *

Seishiro observed that he was gripping the glass so tightly that his knuckles were beginning to turn the skin white with protrusion. Yuui, it seemed, had also made this observation. The pianist looked up at the Maestro and smiled around the rim of his own glass. "Aw. You're getting horny watching Boy Blue and m'brother dance. That's cute."

The Maestro's glasses glinted dangerously.

"No," Yuui insisted, "Really, it is." He grinned. "Look. You're glasses are fogging. I thought that only ever happened in anime. The really perverted ones. Y'know, PWP?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, please do choke on your bourbon and die." Seishiro calmly sipped his own drink with what he hoped looked like professional detachment. He also had to submit to pushing up his glasses, since they kept sliding his nose, and the action was one of the main reasons why he'd converted to contacts so early in his spectacle-wearing-lifetime in the first place.

Pushing up glasses was dorky.

Seishiro was the _Maestro_.

"It would be too much trouble, so I'm afraid I'll have to refuse that lovely suggestion," Yuui sighed dreamily. He leaned in close, shoulders touching with Seishiro, and whispered to the side, "I bet you could steal Boy Blue away from Kyle with your eyes closed if you wanted to. He still loves you, y'know. And Kyle's just bored. 'Sides, Fai's got us now. And even when Kyle needs someone to fuck, he can't get to Fai anymore on account of the 'Fuuka Thing'. So there's no point in letting him keep Subaru in his smarmy hands to protect Fai. Meaning, Boy Blue's all yours."

Seishiro glanced back at where Fai was currently lowering and thrusting his hips into the backs of Subaru's thighs. The violinist caught his eye from the dance floor and winked—as though the point hadn't been emphasized enough, he also put in the addition bonus of salt to Seishiro's figurative wound by running his hands over Subaru's sides.

He could've sworn that five minutes ago the trumpeter hadn't looked that provocative. It was all the Fluorites doing. It was all their fault, the sluts. One beside him, blinking those sheer lashes over his bourbon, and the other grinding and writhing against Subaru. Also, if Seishiro squinted hard enough, it looked like Fai was _groping_ Subaru.

But the Maestro's head was really starting to hurt, so he refrained from the squinting.

"He does love you," Yuui said again. Seriously, this time. "And everyone—even Kamui—knows you love him back. Only one who doesn't, is him. You probably see it. Y'know, how it looks like a sword's stabbing him every time he looks at you?" He stuck his tongue out. "I never understand why two people who have no real, solid obstacles keeping them apart manage to fuck things up like this."

"How solid does it need to be?" Seishiro said pleasantly. "A twin brother, perhaps?"

"Fuck off. I don't want to talk about that. 'Sides. I asked you first."

Seishiro swished around the liquid in his glass. "Well. For me to win him back over, I'd have to ask him to forgive me, right?"

Yuui raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Clearly."

The conductor smiled. "Right. So…Yuui…do you think I have a heart?"

The pianist looked at him oddly. "That's…veering off topic."

"No. It isn't. I promise. Answer."

"Uh. Sure. A bastard one, but one all the same."

Seishiro nodded. He smiled again, this time, raising it towards Hexagon's ceiling. "So, now, answer this. How do you expect someone with a heart to ask him to forgive what I did to him?"

Yuui frowned.

Seishiro continued. "I know what you think. I know that you think he would forgive me, even after. But that isn't what I meant. The problem isn't that I don't think he would forgive me—because _he will_. And that's just it. I can't let him forgive me, because it's ridiculous. It's insanity that what I did to him should be forgiven. And why bring all that back to him when he's perfectly fine with Kyle? Who knows? Maybe Kyle actually loves him back. One evil deed doesn't necessarily constitute another."

Yuui sighed. "This really isn't the way I wanted to spend my Saturday night. Talking to the Maestro about his fucking love life. Or immense lack thereof. Ah, well. At least Monday's a holiday. I can make up then." He gave Seishiro a stern look. "And you owe me for tonight—I was planning to garner up a threesome."

"Whatever you like."

"Anyhow. I disagree that Kyle isn't fully evil. But then again, evil people don't think they are, meaning that evil people could love, too—although I also highly doubt that. And…I actually disagree with everything else." Yuui sipped his drink, long and slow, and watched Seishiro's eyes. "You didn't see yourself the night of the Bathtub Thing. I know I was one of the last ones to show, but you looked like shit."

"Thanks."

"No," Yuui's eyebrows went up. "Really, you looked like you were thinking on different ways to hang yourself. And I dunno if you did that memory-repression thingy that psychiatrists are always going on about, but I sure as hell remember you pacing in front of Subaru's door. I was surprised the floor didn't break and Satsuki hadn't hung you herself already. And then you stayed at his bedside all fucking night, and _then_, when morning came and he woke up, you dashed out like the plague was on your heels."

Seishiro averted his eyes into the Scotch.

Yuui's voice was soft. "Then you made everyone swear that when Subaru asked, all you did was drop him off with Satsuki and leave."

"Not everyone. Fai was avoiding me, then. Angry with me, I s'pose?"

The pianist appeared to smile around the rim of his glass. "I wouldn't say angry…so much as…well…Fai's always had an affinity with secrets, hm?"

Seishiro's head pulsed that much more. He didn't think it was the alcohol. "It doesn't matter if Fai snuck out and told Subaru or not. It doesn't change the fact that Subaru's with Kyle and that's that. I fucked up. The end. And you need to pull your baby brother away from Boy Blue before they get raped together." Seishiro indicated the way there seemed to be a circle of towering young men—taller than Fuuma, even—gathering 'round the violinist and the trumpeter while they danced.

"Like moths to a flame," Yuui sighed, his voice laced with mocking weariness.

"As if you're one to complain. You burn brighter than those two put together." Seishiro stood up and adjusted his jacket. He placed his glass down to the counter with a clink and headed for the two on the dance floor.

Yuui called out after him, "Be a good man and tuck Boy Blue into bed, yeah?"

Seishiro made a point of ignoring that.

* * *

Tugging his worn gloves over his hands, Subaru shifted his glance to the side, watching how Seishiro's breath fogged out into the early December night air. Seishiro had dragged him and Fai out of the crowd of horniness, threw the violinist at his brother, and then dragged Subaru out further to get his coat and follow the conductor out to the curb to wait for his chauffeur to get them.

"You're staring."

Subaru blinked.

Seishiro blinked back in amusement.

"Oh. Sorry," he amended in a small voice.

The Maestro shrugged. Smiled. "It's fine."

Headlights streamed from the main road, approaching them. The Town car swerved neatly against the curb and gentled into a stop. Seishiro opened the back door, holding it out. He inclined his head at Subaru, the amused smile back and dancing on his lips. "After you."

Subaru could only give another blank, "Oh."

The fist's hold froze.

Seishiro slipped in after him, and shut the door. "Back to Akamizu," he spoke through the screen between the driver's seat and the back of the car. The back of the driver's head nodded, and then the screen went up. He loosely lifted the calf of one leg onto his other thigh and drummed his fingers against the window, as the car began to move.

Subaru laced his gloved fingers together tightly.

"It looked like you were having fun. Dancing with Fai." Seishiro glanced at him through the darkness.

"I was," Subaru responded simply. He looked down at his hands. "Fai's very warm. You never feel threatened when he's touching you, you know? Kamui's always with Yuui…they're best friends and they're more brothers to each other than Fai and I ever were to them. So…it's sort of makes sense that Fai calms me." He smiled quietly. "I don't know if I can say the same about myself to him."

"Are you sure you're not confusing this Fai with the Fai that used to be?" Seishiro asked, his eyebrows rose.

Subaru laughed softly. "I think it's nice that Fai's not like that any more."

"He's a Yuui clone, now."

"No." Subaru looked thoughtful. "I can tell the difference. It's always very there. Fai doesn't take it to the extremes as much as Yuui. I can feel there's a restraint that's always in his mind."

"Really." Seishiro's tone was amused.

Subaru tilted his head back against the headrest. "I think so, anyhow."

"You know," Seishiro began softly. Subaru looked to him. "In all truthfulness, I think so, too. And even those two take more comfort in each other than they do in their real brothers, it's because they themselves don't realize that the brothers they need have been right there beside them—from birth to present. Not because you and Fai aren't adequate."

Subaru closed his eyes and upturned his head. "I haven't done anything for Kamui. Nothing at all. Except maybe costing him Fuuma." He felt a hand glide over his. Warmth seeping through the gloves.

His eyes flashed open.

"No." Seishiro's eyes were liquid gold. "Kamui cost himself Fuuma, and _I_ cost Fuuma Kamui."

Subaru's breath stopped.

Seishiro turned away. The hand removed.

The remainder of the ride was silent.

* * *

_Blood._

_There was blood in the water. He awoke to it surrounding him, him immersed in it. Filled the tub to his shoulders. He awoke slung over the edge. If he'd slipped, he'd have died. Drowned naked. In a bathtub filled with bloodied water. Red water. Dyed with his blood._

_He hurt._

_His legs hurt, between his legs it hurt, beneath his back it hurt. His entire body hurt. He needed to vomit. Arms wrapped around his head. Warm arms. Soothing._

_The voice whispered._

_"Shh. It's fine. It'll be fine. Shh."_

_The edges of his vision blurred silver—shifted. The arms tightened around him. Tighter, and tighter, and tighter. Too tight. They kept tightening. Tightening until he saw purple dots line his sight. He couldn't breathe. The bathtub was gone from beneath him._

_He was dry. Still naked. Lying on a floor—wooden._

_Seishiro was fucking him._

_Hard thrusts. Deep pounds. More hurt. Blood._

_It felt mad. Angry._

_Angry with him. Angry with Subaru._

_So angry._

_Angry because Subaru loved him._

_It hurt. Deeper. Harder. Faster._

_Pressing into Subaru—echoing through his whole body. Inside. Filling him, and filling him, and pushing his stomach up his throat. Vomit._

_Too much pain. Stifling and suffocating—unbearable. Unbearable, and Subaru just wanted it to leave. He wanted it to go away. It had to away. Too much. It hurt. Subaru wanted it to stop._

_Seishiro didn't want Subaru to love him. He wanted to make Subaru regret it._

_Subaru never would. He'd never stop._

_No matter how much it hurt._

_He wished Seishiro wouldn't hurt him like this._

_A hit. A slap. A kick. A punch. A stab. That was fine. It just hurt his body._

_Fucking Subaru like it was rape. It hurt his body._

_It hurt his heart, too._

_But Subaru let him anyway. Even though it was stupid. Even though it made no sense._

_Subaru loved him._

_He wished Seishiro would just love him back._

* * *

Subaru's eyes bolted open. He stared at the ceiling. Semi-dark. His eyes slid to the side, checking the glowing numbers on his nightstand. They read that it was just a few minutes past one-thirty. Seishiro had dropped him off at his dorm little over two hours ago.

He'd showered, and unwisely thought of the Bathtub Thing as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep to claim him. The key to nightmares was to think of nothing before falling asleep. And Subaru had broken the rule, and possibly cost himself a night's worth of sleep. Which he would need if he was going to catch up on homework tomorrow morning.

He sat up and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. Talking to Kamui was grounds for getting murdered—the writer would have a fit and probably stalk into the Maestro's room and kill him himself. Talking to Kyle was also a huge X on the list. Kyle shouldn't be bothered because Subaru was pining over traumatic memories that he'd made for himself.

Really. There was only one person Subaru could and should talk to this about. And he knew that the only way to uproot the problem was to discuss it with the root problem.

Although that was grounds for immediate assassination.

Subaru picked up his cell phone from the edge of the nightstand and balanced it on his knee. He stared at it. The cell phone that Seishiro had given him. And in doing so, confused Subaru even further in regards to how they stood.

Because from that point two years ago, Subaru had thought that at best, Seishiro would be his friend. A rather distant acquaintance type of friend. And at the worst, Seishiro would ultimately pretend that Subaru didn't exist, and was nowhere near the Maestro's line of vision.

And now, Seishiro seemed to have traipsed in and ruined all of that precariously built logic that had taken what felt like eons to Subaru to construct and make firm in his mind. The Maestro had simply waltzed in by pure fancy and tipped over everything with a single, gentle prod of his finger. And then it all had come crashing down, leaving Subaru to drive blind.

He sighed, and retook the cell phone into his hands. Sliding it open, and going into his contacts. Scrolled down to S. Pressed the conductor's name. Put the cell phone against his ear. And waited.

"Hello?" His voice was bleary—fogged with sleep.

Subaru swallowed. Licked his lips. "Hi."

"Mm," it sounded like Seishiro had, unlike Subaru, been submersed in the depths of blissfully perfect, _dreamless_, slumber. "Subaru? It's late. What do you need?"

"Um." Subaru felt the fist dig its nails into his heart. "I…kind of had a nightmare. A really bad one."

A pause. "Oh?" Seishiro's voice sounded degrees awake now.

"Yeah."

The Maestro's tone was foreboding. "What was it about?"

Subaru bit his lip. Closed his eyes. Prayed. Then, "You. Me. The…thing, y'know?"

Silence. A click. Silence.

Subaru lifted the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen. Seishiro had hung up.

The fist went maximum hold, and Subaru coughed, closing his eyes tight. He wouldn't throw up. He wouldn't. He would not, because he could absolutely fucking _not_. It wasn't real—it was an imagined feeling. There was no fist around his heart. No real, solid fist. It was just the feeling.

And it was just a bit extreme at the moment because Seishiro had just hung up on him. Which made sense. Because now Subaru could fall back on his original logic. That Seishiro didn't exactly hate him, but he'd much rather be without Subaru if possible. The cell phone was just a freak of nature occurrence. Most likely, Seishiro had simply felt like spiting Fai and Yuui.

Subaru took a deep breath and swung his legs out from beneath the duvet. If he wasn't going to go back to sleep until the thoughts wore off, he should at least get something done. Homework maybe. Perhaps he'd eat something, too.

Like the entire bottle of Nyquil.

He flicked on the lights to the main room, and padded into the kitchen, the flannel pants swishing around his bare feet. It was cold enough at night, mostly because the Fluorite twins—they were in the same dormitory building—always turned on the heaters in their rooms to full blast. Meaning that Subaru was never the only one freezing himself. The rest of the building always shot irritable glances toward the Fluorites, when a snow spell came.

But for some reason, Subaru's hands were always the coldest part of him. No matter how much he warmed them around a bowl of soup, or a cup of coffee, they were so cold they hurt sometimes. It'd always been like that—ever since he could remember. Kamui had once found it vaguely amusing, suggesting that the trumpeter should just wear gloves through the winter—whether outdoors or in.

Well. It'd worked.

Only Subaru's gloves were getting worn. And he usually went through three pairs of them during an average winter, but he'd kept these for two years. Even if they'd begun to fray and the threads were barring, he didn't want to throw them out. For good reason.

Any normal person would feel regret throwing them out because of the quality. Leather, sleek, and black. They fit Subaru's fingers like…well, like a glove. To the very last nuance and crook of his hands. They were so flawlessly wrapped around his fingers, that he could play the trumpet wearing them.

Subaru pulled the left one on after the right, and set to sit on the floor, beside his ottoman, spreading his textbooks out and turning on the light. He yanked his sleeves down and held them to his palms, as he yawned, eyes scanning over the material he'd have to write his essay about. Eight thousand words.

A knock.

He blinked. Looked to the door.

Another knock.

He stood. Stared at the door.

Three knocks in succession, now. Insistent.

Subaru crossed the living room in numbered strides, and fiddled with the lock, turning the knob and pulling the door back. And found himself staring right up at Seishiro—still in his pajamas, barefooted, and holding a pillow beneath one arm. He raised his eyebrows amusedly at Subaru's expression. "Good evening, Subaru. Or…would it be better to say 'good morning'?"

"Good evening's fine," the trumpeter replied faintly, stepping aside to let Seishiro in. He shut the door and heard it close with a mocking sort of click. He watched as the Maestro pushed the ottoman back a few feet from the sofa, put his pillow on the ground, and promptly sat back against the circular piece of furniture, Indian-style on the pillow.

Subaru walked cautiously toward him, sitting precariously at the edge of the sofa. "Um. I was starting on homework."

"At half past one in the morning?" Seishiro raised an eyebrow. "Nope. Denied."

The trumpeter blinked.

Seishiro tilted his head to one side and smiled. "It's making good use of time, but after a nightmare, your mind's not going to be in any shape to think. If you're too afraid to go back to sleep, it's better to sit and think. Watch TV. A book. Music. Play your trumpet. It'll make you feel better than forcing yourself to do homework, you know."

Subaru shifted his hands in his lap, the leather of the gloves chafing against each other. "Oh. I'm not forcing myself. I just…I need something to take my mind off it. That's why…" He stared at his knees, his pulse gaining momentum—his eardrums commenced to burst. "…I called you. I needed to talk to someone."

"Then," Seishiro held up one hand to Subaru, palm open, fingers slightly curled. "Let's talk."

Subaru looked at the proffered hand. Slowly, forcing his arm to remain steady, he placed the gloved hand against Seishiro's, and let himself be tugged gently onto the floor, propping his knees level to his head and leaning back against the sofa. "How'd you get here? Your dorm's across campus."

"My driver lingered a bit—he was afraid it might ice, so he checked the weather channel for some time. He was barely out of the parking lot when I called him after you called me. It was good timing." Seishiro leaned forward a little bit, and looked at Subaru through his lashes. "So, you said this nightmare was about me?"

"Why'd you bring your glasses out?" Subaru ended up blurting.

Seishiro blinked. Stared. "My optometrist said the contacts were irritating me. I'm supposed to be taking a break. She say's it's because of stress." He upped an eyebrow. "You're changing the subject. You needed to talk, remember? Tell me about it."

In all honesty, Subaru hadn't been attempting to veer off topic. He'd simply just realized that Seishiro was wearing his glasses, because while anyone else would've found it immensely noticeable, Subaru was more than used to seeing Seishiro whip out the spectacles for some late at night, last minute research on his laptop, or perhaps checking a score for a concert, during the small moments when Subaru was halfway to the Land of Nod, right beside Seishiro in bed.

But of course, that was years ago.

"There's nothing to tell," Subaru said to his knees. "I'm sorry I called you. And…you know, woke you up. It was kind of…I just panicked when I woke up. It was only a nightmare. Happens to everyone. You didn't have to come."

A finger beneath his chin tipped his face up. Seishiro's eyebrows were gathered up in the middle, the light reflecting off his glasses. Half of his mouth was tugged up into a sad smile. "I know I didn't have to." The hand withdrew. "But I'm here. So you might as well tell me, since when I came, I didn't plan on leaving."

Seishiro held Subaru's gaze, unrelenting. The fist gave a pointed jerk, because Subaru knew that the minute Seishiro walked through that door, Subaru wouldn't have a real say in what was about to happen. He never did when it came to Seishiro—never had, never would. When Seishiro looked at him like that, Subaru found himself unable to do anything else.

And more shamefully—

Subaru _wanted_ to tell Seishiro about the nightmare.

"It was kind of choppy," Subaru began quietly, again, speaking to his knees—because it was just less painful. "But it started with me in the bathtub. You know? The blood in the water. And…I didn't see when you came in, but…I heard your voice. I think your arms went around my head."

Seishiro's breath hitched. Subaru's head jolted up. The Maestro smoothed over with a smile. "Nothing. Go on."

"Well…and then, everything shifted…and…I was on the floor. In your dorm. And you were…" Subaru paused, staring at his hands—at where they rested, cocooned in his lap. "You were…" His nails dug into his palms—even cushioned by the gloves, he still felt them. "You…to me…" He felt warmth trickle down his cheeks, and he ducked his head, hair reaching down to his eyes. "Oh."

_Why was he crying?_

He could look through the stinging wetness enough to make out Seishiro's hand extending toward him—slowly, so slowly—before snapping back to the Maestro's side like a rubber band.

Because of course Seishiro didn't want to touch him. Seishiro simply felt obligated because Subaru had stupidly told him that the nightmare was about him. As much as everyone claimed Seishiro as the bastard of bastards, Subaru knew that he wasn't. Seishiro was kind. Too kind and too gentle, and it made Subaru's heart hurt. It made Subaru's everything hurt.

To have pushed Seishiro over the breaking point so hard that it'd made Seishiro do the unspeakable things that'd caused Subaru's nightmare, was the trumpeter's own fault. Subaru should've simply let things alone, because if Seishiro didn't love the trumpeter, then that was the Maestro's choice. Subaru had no business trying to change that—thinking that if he just kept coming, Seishiro eventually would.

Subaru made to wipe his eyes on the backs of his hands, when larger hands caught his wrists—stopping them. He blinked as much of the saltwater as he could away, to look at Seishiro. The Maestro was smiling—the soft, usual smile—but his eyes hurt to look at. Through the glassy gold, it almost looked like something in Seishiro was crumbling into pieces.

_Was it Subaru's fault? _

"You'll get something in your eye if you do that with gloves," Seishiro laughed softly, tugging them from Subaru's hands. "Here." And then, he reached out and cupped Subaru's face in his hands, thumbs carrying the tears from the trumpeter's skin. He pressed his thumbs against his lips, one by one, and with a thoughtful look, indifferently said, "Salty."

Subaru thought that maybe Seishiro would give him a heart attack someday. Really.

"Could I have my gloves back?" he whispered.

Seishiro held them to eyelevel, gaze scanning the articles of clothing intently. He met with Subaru's eyes again. He sighed. "You still have these?"

Subaru's eyes furrowed. He said in barely more than a murmur, "Yeah."

Seishiro flickered back to Subaru, and then to the gloves. "I'm getting you new ones." His tone was decisive as he carefully laid them atop of Subaru's splayed textbooks. "Those," he nodded at the old gloves, "are coming with me tomorrow morning."

The trumpeter could only say a rather blank, "Why?"

Seishiro's ever-present smile was suddenly no longer present. He looked at Subaru steadily over the rim of his glasses. "Why would you want those gloves, in the first place?" Seishiro sounded awful. No matter how calm and even his voice was, to Subaru it sounded like he was screaming from bloody, bloody pain at the top of his lungs. "They don't have anything but bastard written all over them. They don't have anything but memories you should forget."

Subaru made no movement. No change in his expression.

The Maestro lowered his eyes and then raised them again, looking intently at the trumpeter. "You wouldn't have nightmares if you forgot."

"I don't have nightmare_s_," Subaru said quietly. "It was just this once. I…I just thought too much about it before I fell asleep. That's all." He shifted his legs and rested one cheek against his knee, closing his eyes carefully and heaving a soft, small sigh. "Hey…Seishiro?"

"Hm?"

Subaru opened his eyes slowly, and brought them up to the conductor's gaze. "Do you hate me?"

He didn't know why he asked it. Perhaps it was the fact that at quarter to two in the morning, there wasn't much that made sense in one's orientation of any situation. Perhaps it was the fact that he was half hoping Seishiro would blatantly oppose the question. Perhaps it was the fact that Subaru really had had enough of Seishiro's mind-fucking, and the trumpeter finally wanted to know at least an inkling of what went on in the Maestro's head.

Even then, all things considered, Subaru never got an answer. Not the kind of answer he'd expected—a straightforward, verbal answer, accompanied with Seishiro's signature blunt-as-life smile.

No.

Subaru got an armful of Maestro thrown at him, strong arms wrapping around his body, a face muffling into his hair, a warm body up against his, and a voice so soft it was barely audible, whispering into his ear, "You can't have anymore nightmares—you _can't_."

Slowly, so slowly, Subaru raised his own arms and gripped Seishiro back, fingers curling over the Maestro's shoulders. "…Why?" he asked softly.

The only response to that was a tightening of arms, and the conductor's face buried so deep against Subaru's hair, that he felt lips accidentally brush against his throat. His fingers reflexively dug into Seishiro's shoulders, and as suddenly as the embrace had happened, it ended.

Seishiro drew back little by little, and soon, he was simply sitting across from Subaru again, looking at him with eyes that were shrieking a thousand different things all at once—begging for Subaru to help them, begging to be let out after being locked away for so long.

And Subaru only had eyes for those shrieking, flailing thousands of things—pleading and begging and groveling for _something_—as he reached, hypnotized, outward to touch Seishiro's face.

Seishiro let him.

His cheek was as warm and soft and supple as Subaru had always remembered. A few hundred of those thousands quieted, soothed; they dimmed, and Subaru could see them calming and resting against the cage. "Subaru," Seishiro said in the same quiet tone Subaru had used minutes ago. "You wanted to know if I hated you. Right?"

"Mm? Yeah."

"Could I ask a question?"

Subaru pulled back his hand. "Ask, then."

That little smile was back—the smile that screamed as loud as the thousands in Seishiro's eyes. "If…if I were to say that I'm sorry for everything—_everything_—that I've done to you. All of that. Would you—"

The thousands were banging like banshees—their keening screams turning louder and louder, until Subaru's ears rang from the volume, from the distraught and despair.

"—forgive me?"

* * *

_A/N: Don't kill me. Um...I didn't mean for it to be a cliffhanger. I, in all honesty, meant for them to cuddle into Subaru's bed together with some plain old monstrous sexual tension, but instead I got this monstrous freaking 6,000-something worded chapter, and...more angst. But then again, it's SeishiroxSubaru. If it wasn't angsty, it's just not right. At least...well...er...yeah. I kind of went on a few unplanned tangents here, and that just proves that writers don't control their characters. Characters control writers. For serious._

_Oh. And I'm about to do some shamefully shameless self-promotion, but I think that I'm entitled to just a bit of it. No matter how superduperly shamefully shameless it is. _

_All right, I have this other multi-chaptered fanfic posted (up to chapter 3 as of tonight), and it's called Watch This Space. It's in the Naruto fandom. And if you don't like the Naruto characters anymore, fine, because it's basically an OC carnival. OCs running rampant, with the occasional canon character. The events, the timeline, the story, everything else is perfectly canon. I just stuck in characters. And if you can stomach Mioru as an OC, then you can definitely stomach these ones. It's really my baby fanfic, because I made these characters when I was, well, a baby writer back way three years ago. Y'know, when my writing sucked balls. And for all I know, it still does. But if it doesn't, go by WTS and drop a review or something, because it's also my first fanfic co-authoring with my best friend, who's the REASON that I'm even in to all this manga/anime-ness. I wouldn't be here if she hadn't started me off with Naruto, and then slowly led a chain link from that to Bleach, to Yu-Gi-Oh, to so much other crap, to xxxHolic, and then finally to TRC. (And then I led my own link through X/1999 and Tokyo Babylon). _

_So, aside from the fact that I just added another couple hundred words to my-already-monster-sized chapter, go read WTS and don't blowtorch me for saying so. In any case, I'm off to the beach for about two/three days (South Carolina), so I hope this monstrous thing lasts you that long, and if not, again (I'm a dork) go read WTS. (I'm really a dork). _

_(Good God, now it's 7,000-something)_


	25. Filling In The Blanks I

Filling In the Blanks

**01: Graduation**

When Fai, Yuui, Kamui, and Subaru graduate from Akamizu, naturally, the parties go off on a weeklong tangent. If the four hadn't escaped to the nearest airport and departed to four different countries, then it might've gone on even longer.

Seishiro, for arbitrary purposes that weren't really arbitrary at all when you thought about it, was in charge of writing down the names of four different countries that he'd booked resorts in for all four of them as graduation gifts, and putting those little pieces of paper into a hat. The day before the graduation ceremony, they'd convened in the hotel suite Seishiro was staying at, and three of the four tried not to look at the one of them who was mostly naked and curled in the Maestro's lap as they picked lots.

The four countries were listed as: Montreal, Canada; Barcelona, Spain; Bali, Indonesia; and Bayonne, France.

And because Seishiro was just the master of the universe that way, the four countries were given as such: Subaru with Barcelona, Yuui with Bali, Fai with Bayonne, and Kamui with Montreal.

Clearly, with the Maestro smiling like a hyena in the room, accompanied by his lapful of trumpeter, there was no point in objecting, as it would more than likely just get you killed. Or, at the very least, maimed for life. Psychologically or physically was up to the Maestro's mood.

Fai, being Fai, doesn't mind so much being sent to the third best country among the picks, and plus, he doesn't like baring his skin in the sun all that much anyway. He's just fine with simply baring it for all of his martial artist to see in the bedroom.

But Yuui and Kamui, being Yuui and Kamui, mind more than much at being sent to the-not-number-one-best-country in the picks, and they have to settle for sending a long string of obscenely outraged text messages to the Maestro—Kamui, more so than Yuui, since Montreal's weather is impossible to call on for skin-baring.

Seishiro is content with calling up the phone company and asking them to automatically filter every message from Yuui Fluorite and Kamui Sumeragi's cell phone numbers for the duration of the summer. After all, he's in Barcelona, Spain, drinking champagne, eating tapas, sunning on the beach, and warm lapful of trumpeter.

Just because he's not the one graduating, doesn't mean he can't enjoy himself either.

* * *

**02: Post Partum Depression**

A week after first term of Kurogane's junior year at Akamizu starts, he gets called in to the guidance counselor.

The first thing he does is blink, because he thought that all that emotional shit ended in high school. But apparently not. Apparently, his professors and coaches have become concerned about the fact that he has cracked three of his sparring opponents ribs, and broken two others' noses and teeth. _Through the gear. _

And Kurogane swears to the guidance counselor and her bug-faced-spectacles (y'know, the ones that're so huge, his reflection is magnified in them), that he's just gotten stronger, and the other kids have just gotten weaker. That's all. He's not going through anything even close to Post-Best-Friends-Graduating-Withdrawal.

Firstly, Fai _isn't _his best friend. Kurogane is pretty sure that you're not supposed to jack off to the boxer briefs that your best friend left behind during his rushed packing. Not that he_ does_ that or anything.

No. 'Course not. Jacking off his for repressed fifteen-year-olds. Which he is not.

Kurogane also swears to Ms. Fly-Cup-Eyes that he hasn't accidentally kicked his desks in two classes in half because of aforementioned withdrawal either. It was an accident. The pollution or some shit is fucking up the tree growth-ish-thing. Yeah. Wood's getting weaker. Babies are crying. It's a screwed-up world.

Because Fai is _not_ his best friend, goddamn it. And best friend or not, Kurogane _does not_ miss him. The fact that he's Ti-Vo-ed Fai's next week's worth of concerts in Dublin means absolutely nothing. _Nothing_.

He just likes to listen to good music, is all. For serious. Classical appreciation and all that good artful crap. Yeah.

Moreover, just because Mioru betrayed him by tattle-tale-ing about catching the martial artist staring off into space "morosely" one or two (or twenty-three-and-a-half) times between classes doesn't mean that Kurogane has a _problem_. Or an _issue_. Or fucking _withdrawal_.

All it means is that Kurogane likes to contemplate about the higher meanings in life. Because Kurogane is deep and Gandhi-like like that. That way, when Fai comes back to Japan in November, the violinist can't poke the athlete in the cheek and ask him in that sweet way of his if Kurogane missed him at all.

For the record, Kurogane doesn't.

He _doesn't_.

So ha.

* * *

_A/N: Because starting high school for the first time EVAR kills brain cells like no other, you'll probably be getting a lot of these. They're little mini teensy drabbles about the times between the end of Secrets, and the beginning of Unveiled. Thus, the name. They'll be more, trust me. I need fluff, because you can't write angst when you're trying not to worry about missing the bus, and getting trampled on by six-foot-basketball players when you yoursel are a tiny, little, Asian girl, and being late for class because you are epic fail at lock-opening. And going up and down stairs. And maneuvering through the halls. And then coming home exhausted and taking a two-hour nap, before doing homework and then collapsing into bed without a single word further written in your fanfics, which your poor readers are probably baying for your blood at. _

_Like I said. High school + Updating + Angst!Compelled = DeadFAILbrainCellsEPIC._

_Reviews cushion the agony. _


	26. Filling In The Blanks II

_A/N: Because I fail at life._

* * *

Filling In The Blanks II

**03: Table**

Kurogane doesn't exactly know why Tomoyo invited him and Fai over for brunch, but he suspects it's something strongly to do with the cheery smile on her face that comes off as much more of a leer to him. He also doesn't quite know why Amaterasu and Amaterasu's friend, Souma, are here, too. Other than the fact that Amaterasu lives here. But the Souma part, he doesn't really want to know.

He also probably doesn't want to know why Fai's giving him that Cheshire cat smile as they sit down at the table. And he's certain he doesn't want to know why Souma is giving Amaterasu significantly furtive looks.

So it doesn't surprise him at all (his choking doesn't necessarily mean _surprise_) when Tomoyo asks her older sister what she and Souma did last night during their fun, fun girls sleepover that Tomoyo wasn't allowed in, nor does it surprise him when Fai practically purrs in his seat towards Amaterasu and Souma as they look down at the table.

And he's certain that it doesn't surprise anyone when he pushes his chair out, stands up, and sets off to finish his poached eggs on the veranda, because he really, really didn't think he'd ever be able to eat ever again if he had to stomach brunch at a table where two dykes went at it.

He also doesn't feel like eating while having to endure that gaze Fai's giving him—y'know, the one where it looks like the musician is suggesting that _they_ do it on a table, too?

People _eat_ on the things, for fuck's sake. It's just…it's not nice.

* * *

**04: Disease**

Sometimes, Seishiro wonders if Subaru actually has some sort of mental affliction.

Because the Maestro thinks that if a person has been as awfully mistreated as Seishiro has mistreated (for lack of another word to better express the awfulness) Subaru, no matter how many times Seishiro has not-so-subtly stuffed the trumpeter's arms full of ridiculous gifts with over the years to make up, that person, if he possessed any ounce of self-preservation and sanity, would undoubtedly abandon the one who mistreated them so.

But Subaru had not only continued to chase after Seishiro, but he was always there waiting, and forgave him afterward to boot. And Seishiro just doesn't know how he's supposed to handle that kind of thing. Because in the Maestro's mind, if someone fucks with you, you're supposed to fuck them right back at the very least, if you're going to forgive them at all—which Seishiro usually _doesn't_, by the way.

And yet, if, after being such a bastard, Seishiro is still able to keep all of Subaru's soft kisses and that writhing little body to himself because the trumpeter has some sort of terrible mental illness…

Then Seishiro hopes that the cure is never found.

* * *

**05: Beyond a Reasonable Doubt**

Because Fai told him, Seishiro knows that due to everything that's happened between them, sometimes, Subaru still has a tiny bit of him that expects Seishiro to leave again—to hurt him again. And Seishiro knows that that tiny bit can only be extinguished with time and proof that Seishiro will _never fucking leave_ again—will _kill himself_ before he hurts Subaru.

But Seishiro hopes that Subaru never knows how much of a bastard he really is. 'Cause really, the conductor knows that his lover could do so much better if only he wanted to, and if Subaru ever figures that out and actually leaves Seishiro, the Maestro can do nothing, because he fully deserves that.

And if Subaru ever finds someone who treated him as perfectly as Kyle, sans the psychotic, then Seishiro will probably be sorely tempted to shoot that someone straight through the eye.

Seishiro has every reason to want to keep Subaru with him for as long as possible, but when he wracks his brains, he really can't think of a reason why Subaru would want to let him.

Other than the sex. And the fact that Seishiro's fucking hot.

Well, yes. Other than that, Seishiro can't think of a reason.

He thinks—as he watches Subaru sitting on the wooden floor, curled up on a cushion, and doing some watching of his own of the snow falling softly on the other side of the glass wall—that maybe it's time he asks.

"Subaru."

The trumpeter turns around, blinks those round green eyes, and Seishiro can see that he was in the middle of adjusting the edges of the plush, white turtleneck higher against his chin. "Mm?" His voice is slightly muffled through the cashmere.

"I'm a bastard, right?"

"Mm hm."

Seishiro snaps his book shut and sets it on the ottoman. "Then why do you love me?" He throws in a smile as an afterthought.

Subaru blinks and his hand slowly comes away from the collar of his sweater. "Last time—"

"Besides the sex," the Maestro waves a hand off.

"You—"

"And my stunning good looks."

Seishiro will be lying if he said he wasn't somewhat crestfallen by the fact that Subaru now looks quite stumped. The trumpeter tugs absently at his left sleeve and shifts on the cushion. "Um…" Then his eyebrows come up in a sort of dawning, and Seishiro watches him stand up and stroll indifferently toward him, as if this was just another listed chore.

Subaru stops when he's standing between Seishiro's legs, and puts two small hands near both of the Maestro's knees. He sighs a little breath that's somehow so adorable, it makes something in Seishiro want to reach up and kiss him.

So he does.

The trumpeter pulls away too quickly for Seishiro's likes, but there's an inexplicable little smile dancing on Subaru's lips when Seishiro regains his bearings. "Well, you have your answer, now, I s'pose." And with that, Subaru promptly spins around and walks back to his cushion to continue watching the snow drop from the night sky.

* * *

**06: Guilty Until Proven Innocent (Companion to 02: Post Partum Depression)**

Fai is not a forgetful person. But he _is_ human. And humans forget at one point or another. The fact that there can be human that isn't forgetful simply means that they remember what they forgot, and they usually don't do it a second time very soon at all.

Fai remembered in clear perfection precisely five minutes after the Town car left Akamizu toward the airport that he forgot his boxers. That one completely white pair except for the blue stripes going up and down in the very left hand corner of the waistband. Yes.

But it isn't like he can't buy more, and he hardly needs sixty pairs of boxers, so it's not going to hurt him if he loses one or two pairs. Meaning that he leaves those boxers as they are—the cleaning staff will probably throw them away or donate them to charity or something (if charities accept used underwear, he isn't quite sure).

Fai does not, however, remember losing the boxers and other numerous clothing articles following that.

It started the first time he returned to Japan after starting the touring with Seishiro's orchestra. The season was winter, and Kurogane was a quarter through his sophomore year at Akamizu. It also happened to be Christmas break, and naturally, Fai decided to stay with Kurogane and his parents—since Yuui was in Germany with Ashura, and wouldn't be back till Christmas Eve.

They talked some, ate some, drank some, had sex some, and then Fai packed up to go meet his brother for a quiet Christmas in the States. Kurogane had driven him to the airport, and they'd said goodbye, made-out some at baggage check-in, and then departed.

If Fai had forgotten anything, he would've realized so five minutes precisely after Kurogane's car had left his estate. But he hadn't. Meaning Fai hadn't _forgotten _anything.

But when he reached the midway point in London for quick plane exchange (the snow always posed problems), and he was checking through his carry-on bag for a change of underwear—

He had none.

Fai had specifically put in one pair of boxers—the black pair with a red line through the waistband _specifically_—in the case that he'd have to switch planes because of the weather during this time of year.

He had put them in his Bally messenger bag just the night before he left for the airport. Although, he had to admit that there were _other_ things he was preoccupied with that night _as well_, but he knew that he remembered—

And the realization hit him then.

Right then.

_Oh. I see._

Standing in line for immigration, Fai burst out laughing and only when he was done with his laughter, did he notice the security guards staring at him. Along with everyone else behind and in front of him in line.

He hoped that none of them thought he was a trafficker.

But after that, every time Fai went to visit Kurogane during his time off from the orchestra and touring, he always lost another piece of clothing. So far, his tally includes three t-shirts, five pajama bottoms, two pairs of cargo shorts, three pairs of jeans, five pairs of chinos, four dress shirts, one belt (although Fai was sure that leather carried no scent, except for the scent of, well, leather), seven undershirts, many, many, many, many pairs of boxers, and even many more pairs of boxer briefs.

At this rate, Fai really will need to buy more.

Unless he can get Kurogane to relinquish them. And launder them. Thoroughly.

But from what Fai's tried so far—subtle hinting, and occasional prodding—Kurogane isn't about to budge. The athlete's pride deems it impossible to budge. Budging is out of bounds and out of the question. Admitting to this heinous crime is also out of bounds and out of the question. Because young manly masculine men in a relationship do not _jack off_. Not even when their significant other is halfway around the world.

That just isn't the way manly masculine men roll. Apparently.

Fai wouldn't know. He's just guessing.

After all, he's never implied that he is—and never _will _imply that he is—a manly masculine man. He doesn't jack off to his significant other's clothes, because although he isn't a manly masculine man, he _is_ a smart one.

He jacks off to _voicemails_.

It leaves less evidence.

* * *

_A/N: I understand that I'm epic fail at updating under the pressure of brain damage from high school. I know I sound like a whiny little middle schooler, but it's only been two weeks folks, and I'm just ridiculous that way. So until I can get up enough un-brain-dead-ness to write angst, you'll just have to deal with fluff. Fluff's good, though, right? Has the right amount of nutrients and all, y'know? _

_Ah. Screw it. _

_(I had my third english test today about the mythology book included in summer reading. And I probably failed it. Just to confirm my failness, who killed the Minotaur? Perseus or Theseus?)_


	27. Filling In The Blanks III

_A/N: Because the amount of how much I fail at life is astonishing._

* * *

Filling In The Blanks III

**10: To Each His Own**

Doumeki likes to do it missionary position—traditionally and simply, with pale legs in the air, and slender arms around his neck. He likes to remove glasses from a flushed face with his teeth. He likes to be able to run his tongue along the curve of a neck to a shoulder. He wants to see a scowling face try its best not to show any more emotion than it already is when Doumeki moves his hips forward and _up_.

Maybe it's because Doumeki is a simple person. He doesn't see why you should elaborate on things that are already well and good as they are. Missionary is fine, in his opinion. It's better than fine. It's peachy keen and smilingly dandy.

Besides, he _does_ let Watanuki kick him in the head when the goalie's back is sore from being bent so long the next morning, doesn't he?

Seishiro likes to do it front to back, with Subaru's stomach pressed against the sheets, and then three-quarters of the way to climax, he'll switch to missionary, urging the trumpeter's legs onto the conductor's shoulders. He wants to be able to see Subaru's face when he comes, when he's _just that close_ to breaking from the edge. But Seishiro still has that tiny fetish of simply having to appreciate the elegantly arching line that splits Subaru's back in perfect symmetry. Along with the damp dark hair that sticks to the nape of a perspiring neck, bent and concentrated, and sometimes tossing back for a kiss.

It's because, he thinks, that he loves Subaru's body too much. Subaru has the most flawless body that curves just right into your hand, arches at the subtlest touches (if placed rightly); it's smooth and soft and pliant and oh-so-bendy, and the only way Seishiro can ever be satisfied is if they switch part of the way like they always do.

Taking Subaru on his stomach is a _must_, but seeing Subaru's face when he comes, and Seishiro being able to run his tongue all over that chest is also a must. It's too hard to decide whenever they're about to go at it, so Seishiro has to settle for splitting it like that. It's sometimes tricky, and it requires a bit of maneuvering flipping Subaru around while Seishiro is _still inside_ him, but it's definitely not impossible.

Plus, the friction is usually what brings Subaru to orgasm anyhow.

Fuuma likes to do it on a countertop—a table is all right, he supposes, but it's just not the same as the smooth, cold granite countertop that makes him hard just by the sight of one. It's the exact reason why Kamui and Fuuma's bed is always neat and nicely made—never rumpled. They rarely ever do it on a bed.

He likes the way he can sit Kamui right on top of the stone surface, the way it makes them perfectly level so that the writer can strap his legs around Fuuma's waist. He likes the way it gives them perfect leverage to go at it from any angle, and the way that by the time they both finish, the granite is no longer icy to touch—it's fogged with heat.

Among other things.

And although Kamui will vehemently comment the next morning at breakfast, about how if this keeps up, he really will lose his appetite to eat in the kitchen, because kitchens are for _food_, damn it, and not sex.

In all honesty, Fuuma thinks the two are interchangeable.

Ashura likes it with Yuui on top. He likes feeling the pianist's weight on him, watching the copious strands of blond hair fly all over the musician's face as he moves up and down on Ashura. He doesn't quite know why, but he thinks that something as volatile as Yuui shouldn't be pinned down to a bed and ravished. It's just too unimaginable.

So Ashura lets Yuui ride him, with the musician's legs wrapped around the artist's sides for leverage, Ashura leaning back against the headboard, one hand firmly ensconced by fistfuls of blond hair. It just triggers something all too feral in Ashura whenever he sees that first initial expression of pain exploding into pleasure hidden as pain covered in pleasure—when Yuui first covers Ashura's cock with himself, dropping right down on the crux of Ashura's thighs.

There's just something much too appealing—in probably a rather unhealthy, psychotic way—of letting that beautifully wild volatility roam free beneath your control.

Kurogane likes it with Fai in his lap. He likes being able to feel all of the violinist on his legs, against his chest, in his arms. Fai is light, but not so light that there isn't that warm weight pressed against the martial artist's body—moving up and down in rhythm, grinding and swinging.

The athlete likes feeling every curve and line and fall and contour of the musician's body. There's something about being able to cover and map that pale body with his large hands, seeing them dip into the skin and make imprints onto the flesh—proof that he'd been there and he'd touched all of those places. It's invigorating and much too tempting to not only be able to see and hear Fai's expressions and voice as he get closer and closer to orgasm, but to feel him tremor and tremble and shake and shiver is something else entirely.

And since they usually come all over each other this way, it saves water for washing the sheets. A two-for. Besides, it's not like Kurogane's asking that Fai wear a maid's costume or anything. It's a lot more than what can be said about the others, that's for sure. Kurogane has seen one too many kinky little fetishes, and he just wants everyone out there to know that that is not how he rolls.

Although, it's not like a maid's costume would be a _bad _thing.

* * *

_A/N: Semi-pron heals the soul after a grueling week of high school. Still adjusting, by the way. (And I don't know if I'd mentioned this before, but most of the reason why it seems like I'm taking an eternity and three-quarters to get adjusted is because even though my high school is a small 1400+, I went to a private kindergarten through eighth grade school that had about 70-ish kids in one _grade_, and 600-ish kids in the entire _school_.) Plus, the new best friend that I made at high school (who also happens to be a manga/anime person) just got switched out of the only period I had with him, so now I can only see him once a week in club. _

_And the school sites are up so now we'll probably have more homework. Fabulous, amirite?_

_*headdesk*_

_Reviews fill in the blanks of my deadened brain. _

_(Really, I'm just putting these up because I need to write to sustain life, and for updating's sakes. I know it seems like I'm never going to update Compelled/Unveiled/Impulse--like a real chapter--again, but I am. I seriously am. The same goes for WTS. It's just that it seems like I have no time 'cause high school is zapping all my energy. I mean, I could probably write fast and end up with some crummy thing that I know is like less than an eighth of my writing ability, but I hope that I'm write in inferring that you'd rather wait a little or a lot longer for a holiday or something, rather than just having me straight-out write for my life and update with this crappy/cracky chapter where Fai seems like a ditz and Yuui inhales jelly beans or something.)_

_(I'll stop before the A/N ends up longer than the chapter. Again.)_


	28. Filling In The Blanks IV

Filling In The Blanks IV

**11: Nothing But Fear Itself**

Sometimes, Kurogane thinks that Fai is a little bit scary.

But _only _a little bit.

He himself is certainly not scared _of_ Fai, because Kurogane You-ou isn't scared of anything. Like, _nothing at all_. It's just a possible theory that he thinks Fai might be scary—in an objective sort of way. And Kurogane thinks that it's a fucking good theory, too, because it's a theory that he's gathered after months upon months of research and observation. He's proved his hypothesis and drawn his conclusions.

Right now, he's just reanalyzing his data.

And the starting point of the research began back at the beginning of Fai's senior year at Akamizu.

Beneath the sheets, Kurogane absently stroked the side of Fai's thigh. The violinist lay on his stomach, finger moving in circles around the keypad of his laptop—propped up against a pillow, and both of them lying naked in bed. "How come you're always doing crap?" Kurogane muttered.

Fai's eyes were glued to the screen. "Hm?"

"If you're going to worry all the time about auditions, why don't you just audition? All those orchestras are always fucking emailing you, anyway."

"Wha…?"

Kurogane dug his fingers into the pale skin. "D'you even hear me?"

Fai's head didn't move. "Sure, Kuro-puu. The double shots are over there." The musician pointed absently.

"Just audition, for god's sakes, and get it over with," Kurogane nudged Fai. Hard.

The violinist's head swiveled around slowly. "Why would I need to audition?" He blinked, finger slowing its rounds around the keypad.

Kurogane frowned. Blinked back. "Isn't that why you've been spending all this time on your laptop for the past week? Because you were nervous about auditions?"

Fai's brow furrowed. "I still don't get it."

"What are you doing on your laptop right now?" Kurogane rephrased carefully, feeling something in his stomach tie itself into undoable knots one by one.

"I'm counting, rejecting, and deleting the emails I've gotten from all the orchestras that keep sending invitations to me," Fai said obviously. "Last weekend, Yuui and I started a race to see who could reject the most by the end of the week. We tried to get Subaru to join, but Seishiro wouldn't let us." Fai adjusted the laptop on his pillow, and jabbed at the screen indicatively. "We agreed that it's cheating to copy and paste rejections, but I thought that if I changed opening and ending sentences every third time, it's technically a valid loophole. Don't you think?"

By now, Kurogane's eyes had become really small. "Wait. So. You _are_ going to audition for the orchestra you _do_ want to get into…right?"

Fai blinked again. "I don't see what that has to do with the race. Actually, I don't get what auditioning has to do with me at all."

"You want to get into an orchestra…right?" Kurogane asked as slowly as he could without sounding retarded himself.

Fai nodded.

"So in order to get into an orchestra, you have to audition…right?"

Fai smiled. "Oh. I get it now."

"Good. Because I don't, retard."

Fai laughed, and tugged at a handful of strands of Kurogane's hair. "Of course I don't audition, Kuro-kun. I just call them up and ask them what time rehearsal is. Then they'll erase the audition list for first violin and concert master."

Kurogane sputtered. Only a little bit.

"Now, no more talking, 'kay? I have to get at least sixty-seven more done by tonight, or else I'll be behind schedule, and then we can't have any sex until Friday."

Today was Tuesday.

Kurogane sighed, turned around, and went to sleep.

Sometimes, Kurogane wondered if being around the Fluorites too much would affect his mental health. After all, Ashura Ou didn't seem too sane himself either. But then again, Ashura Ou had always been plenty scary as it was.

* * *

**12: An Apple a Day**

Kamui would like to think that he was a strapping young man with a good health and all the things that came with that. He had good eyesight, sharp senses, a fine mind, and pertaining to his age, a well exercised libido. And even though he could spend hours upon hours reading and writing, unmoving from a single spot, he probably weighed less than the average seventh grader—and he could pull it off, too.

But anyway. His libido. Right. Kamui was more than wholly certain that he had as much sexual stamina and need as was necessary and as was _normal_. Because for a young human man in his early twenties, four nights of sex a week should be more than enough. It was _more_ than half the week. Thus, for a _normal_, young, _human_ man, it should be enough. More than enough. It should be fucking plenty.

Recently, however, Kamui had been forced to rethink his criteria of a normal, young, human man, and he had discovered that Fuuma was neither normal, nor human, although he was unfortunately very much a young man.

Because four nights of sex a week just wasn't enough for Fuuma, apparently. Seven nights a week wasn't enough either. It was _three times every day at the least_ that made the cut for the athlete—if possible, four, but six really would be best.

And Kamui, after that, had set it upon himself to type up a grade A+ thesis for Fuuma to read on absolutely why having sex more than once a day is probably going to be illegal sometime in the not-so-far future, because it is impossible to actually have a productive lifestyle when you were being thrown onto a granite countertop on your stomach every two hours.

Not to mention that the latest fad was to Go Green, and it was hardly possible to Go Green when you were using over ten gallons of water for your laundry every day because your clothes needed washing every day.

But of course, as per everything in Fuuma-dom, Kamui's thesis proved absolutely nothing except that Kamui was a lovely genius, who deserved lots and lots of celebratory sex because he wrote so well, even when he was just teasing Fuuma about the fact that Fuuma's sexual prowess was beyond that of even Yuui's. Word for word. Really.

And then, while Kamui had been scowling and preparing himself for the inevitable toss over the kitchen countertop, Fuuma had grinned, temporarily removing his tongue from the writer's navel, and said, "An apple a day keeps the doctor away, y'know."

"You're insufferable."

Fuuma just broadened his grin. "Kamui every night keeps Fuuma satisfied."

"Die. You need to die. Like, now. That sentence was disgusting."

The athlete raised an eyebrow.

Kamui sighed. "Or you can die after I come. I suppose."

* * *

_A/N: If you have your torches lit and your pitchforks sharpened, I can't blame you. I really can't. I am officially EPIC FAIL EVAR at updating. I no longer have the excuse that high school kills my brain dead, because my brain has been resurrected. I also do not have the homework excuse, because even though I'm taking all the honors classes (and all the highest levels for a freshmen), too, I have about an hour of homework a night. At the most. I have no excuse except for the fact that JE bishies kill my time dead. NewS and KAT-TUN....WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?_

_I swear. Blame them. BLAME THEM. _

_(But seriously, even though it's at a snail pace, I'm working on Compelled, Unveiled, and Impulse. Maybe, if you read one sentence of this chapter per day, by the time you finish, new chapters will be up...)_

_On another, huger, note: DUDES, TRC IS EFFING OOOOOOOOOVEEEEEEEERRRR. WHAT DO WE DO NOW?_

_Yeah. It's 10:30, and since I read the chapter yesterday, I spazzed and ranted yesterday, and thus have no more spastic rantingness to use up on this A/N. All I can say is that JE bishies are so full of sexy hotness and evil that I'm starting to form a theory on how they are supernatural beings who kill with their sexy hips of DOOM. Especially Jin. ESPECIALLY BAKANISHI. _


	29. S and the Maestro's Story V

S and the Maestro's Story V

"You're _watching_ him again," Yuui sang into Seishiro's ear as he padded up and over the conductor's stand on his way to the piano. The Maestro smiled derisively at the pianist's retreating back, as Yuui more or less skipped down the way to play an A for Fai to tune to.

They were in their first orchestra practice session for the seniors' graduation ceremony in the spring. No matter how far away it seemed from the snowy December they were now approaching, the practices had to begin early. A symphony orchestra was harder to manage because of the numbers, and Seishiro didn't fancy having to rush his work.

However, neither did he fancy having Yuui Fluorite jab him all through practice by way of carefully constructed double entendres about how Seishiro was ogling Subaru. _Again_.

For the record, Seishiro was _not_.

It _just so happened_ that the conductor's stand was simply very high off the ground, clearly in order that he could see all of who he was about to conduct, and _it just so happened_, that the trumpeters sit straight across from the conductor's stand—albeit, quite a ways away regarding distance, but were Seishiro to stare straight ahead, his line of sight would come in contact with them. And _it just so happened_, that Subaru was first trumpet, so naturally, he just so happened to be in Seishiro's line of sight.

It really did just so happen.

No, really.

It meant absolutely nothing that for the past week Seishiro had been avoiding Subaru because of the answer—or rather, the reaction—the sophomore had given him after that stupid, stupid, stupid question Seishiro had more or less said because his mouth had finally managed to follow through with rebellion against his mind for just three seconds.

The minute Seishiro had finished that question he didn't quite know what he expected Subaru to do. He'd just known that he hadn't expected absolutely silent tears to begin streaming down Subaru's face in twin rivers, over his cheeks and dripping onto his collarbone. He hadn't expected Subaru's eyes to fall wide and round, and for the trumpeter to look like he'd just been stabbed through the ribs.

He also hadn't expected Subaru to apologize.

Multiple times.

Through the tears.

And Seishiro definitely hadn't anticipated that he would leave the way he had—standing up without explanation and disappearing out the door so quickly he left his pillow behind. The only pillow he could ever fall asleep on these days.

The pillow that Subaru had once always used whenever the trumpeter had stayed over with Seishiro. All those years ago.

So adding to the factor that Seishiro hadn't received adequate sleep for about a week, coupled with the fact that his addled mind had to schedule practice—contacting the old members and the freshmen ones for seating auditions—along with the usual homework and touching up senior projects and so on, he also had looming over him the fact that every time he snuck a peek of Subaru this week, the trumpeter had shadows under his eyes, looking as though he was wondering what he'd done to offend life _this_ time around.

But how all of that made Yuui think that Seishiro was actually purposely watching Subaru, while the sophomore adjusted his music and raised his stand to the right height and blew a few notes on his trumpet, Seishiro really _did not_ know.

Truly, it was unfathomable.

Seishiro thought that he was getting really good at this lying-to-yourself thing. He should become an actor.

There'd been a moment earlier, before Yuui had started his rounds around the stage for tuning, when Fai had stopped by Subaru's stand. The violinist had whispered to him, and then, Fai had looked up to stare right at Seishiro; in the moment that Subaru was fixing the mouthpiece of his trumpet, Fai had very clearly mouthed, _"Talk to him."_

Meanwhile, Yuui had mouthed, _"Jackass, you made him cry."_

Seishiro had liked Yuui's comment better.

Nevertheless, Seishiro knew he should do something. And he would. He'd talk to Subaru after practice. A short concise talk about how no matter what happens the trumpeter should never take advice from willowy, blond twins, because willowy, blond twins were usually lots of trouble.

Plus, Seishiro really needed his pillow back. The increase in coffee was causing a decrease in sanity.

Last time he'd checked, Subaru's eyes weren't _that_ pretty.

* * *

Subaru kind of felt like he was surrounded by arrows—all of them poised and ready to shoot their selves at him at any given moment. Each of those arrows stood for a different reason why Subaru believed he deserved to be shot these days.

One of them was Kyle. Kyle, who was ever-patient, and never asking why Subaru seemed to spend his nights red-eyed and wide-awake even though as a doctor, he could obviously tell that the trumpeter needed sleep. Kyle, who Subaru was trying so hard to love more than anything (_anyone_) else, and it just wouldn't work, and no one was going to get hurt from this except from the doctor.

Another one was his twin. Kamui had been repeatedly asking Subaru, on and on, about why Subaru looked so pale, why did Subaru have to spend so much time in the infirmary being tended to by Kyle, why did Subaru look like he was getting about an hour of sleep every night, why were there _tear tracks_ sometimes down Subaru's cheeks?

Subaru knew that it was taking all Kamui had to muster up enough thought process in order to finish his mini-novel project assignment by the due date at the end of the year (no editors—nothing, just he, himself, and his writing skills), and his brother didn't need the addition of worrying over the musician. It just wasn't worth it, and Subaru wished Kamui knew that. Everything was Subaru's fault, after all.

Two other of those arrows were Fai and Yuui, who were constantly hovering over him for one reason or another, petting his hair and kissing his lips and telling him that Seishiro was a bastard—_such_ a bastard—and that Subaru should sleep and maybe, _maybe_, take time off from Kyle, because Subaru just needed lots and lots of rest, was all.

Before now, those two had never really even _looked_ at him, let alone worried about him.

And then of course, _of course_, there was Seishiro. He represented the other 466 arrows aimed at Subaru.

Subaru just _did not understand_ why Seishiro had asked that question last week. Not only did he not understand, but it'd been well past midnight, Subaru had been tired, Seishiro's presence was suffocating his heart blue, and the first thing that reacted in Subaru when he'd heard those words simply triggered tears. He himself didn't know why, meaning of course Seishiro didn't know why, but Subaru didn't know either why Seishiro left like that.

He could hazard a guess, but it was already general knowledge that Subaru was somewhere beneath an aphid in terms of ranking in Seishiro's mind.

Oh. And Seishiro had left his pillow in Subaru's dorm. Which had caused Subaru to place it onto his bed, and let the week's worth of sleep fly out the window, because all Subaru could do with that pillow on his bed was just stare at it. He didn't have the heart to trash it, and he didn't think that Seishiro would want it back, either. It _was _just a pillow.

So now, Subaru was righting the mouthpiece on his trumpet, while simultaneously attempting to keep the music sheets on his stand from falling off because all the stands that actually stood at a ninety degrees angle from the floor and not at a slant had all already been taken by the instruments in the front—namely, the strings.

Just as Subaru finally managed to cushion one of the stand's legs with his foot to raise it up a bit from the awful tilt, a violist walked by him irately and slammed a stand down in front of Subaru. The trumpeter blinked and looked up at the girl. "Um…yes?"

"Happy?" she snapped, and wrapped the hand that wasn't holding her viola and bow around Subaru's tilted stand and snatched it up from the ground, bringing it back with her toward her seat.

Subaru stared blankly after her, and bent down to pick up his fallen music sheets. He put them on his now-non-tilted-stand. The second trumpet beside him said quietly, "Must be nice to be friends with the conductor, huh?"

Subaru blinked again. "Excuse me?"

The second trumpet raised his eyebrows. "You didn't see? Ah, well, you were fixing the mouthpiece, anyway. Yeah, Sakurazuka was doing that creepy smiling thing to that girl for about five minutes while she was raising her stand and all. Everyone else was staring. Guess he wanted you to actually be able to keep your music _off_ the floor." He gestured sadly to his own tilted stand—the music was haphazardly _taped_ onto the black metal.

Subaru looked up to the conductor's stand at the second trumpeter's words.

The Maestro was buried under volumes of music, hands deftly shifting the piles upon piles of paper, while simultaneously balancing the complaints of what looked (from Subaru's far off view in the brass section), three irate flutists, and one miserable oboist.

In other words, absolutely too busy to bother with the likes of an insignificantly insignificant trumpeter—even if he _was_ first seat.

Everyone looked up when the three taps of the Maestro's baton rapped against the metal stand. All except for the Fluorite twins—Yuui was draped over the piano seat like a whore and Fai had his bow standing between his legs and leaning against his crotch. Seishiro adjusted his glasses and said into the microphone on the edge of his stand, "I want to do major scales C through A, three octaves each, but before we start, I have to announce the piece that'll be played at the senior graduation ceremony. I've decided to do the Trumpet Voluntary by Clarke."

Several hands and bows went up.

Seishiro merely smiled condescendingly. "There will be no auditions for solo parts. I've already assigned them."

Several hands and bows went down.

New hands and bows went up.

Seishiro showed teeth in his smile this time. "It isn't according to seating."

The new hands and bows went down.

"Now," the Maestro shuffled more papers along, and slapped down two binders of music onto the desk behind the stand. "I'll call your name and we'll distribute the pieces by passing them down the end rows—if you have any questions or concerns about the parts you've been given or about the music in general, you can state them after, I repeat, _after_, we've sight read through this and the practice session has ended, understood?"

All heads nodded. Yuui and Fai giggled and yawned.

Subaru leaned back in his chair and idly brushed his fingers over the valves of his trumpet, the cold brass bold against the pads of his hand. He watched the light shine from the hallowed orchestra hall's ceiling; if he listened carefully enough, he could most likely sleep while Seishiro was handing out the parts—Subaru might be one of the first trumpets, but there was no guarantee at all that he would get the vital trumpet solo that made up nearly the entire song.

He wasn't sure if it was even possible for him to play it either. From what he was hearing right now—the enraged shouts throughout the orchestra as they, one-by-one, received the music—Seishiro had somehow achieved further infuriating level today by pulling out the most difficult and elaborate arrangement of the Voluntary he could find.

The Maestro rapped his baton again. "This," he said calmly, as hundreds of eyes glared at him, "is _my_ senior graduation ceremony. _I _am graduating, along with my class. The class that _I_ am in. Thus, because _I_ am in this class, _I_ can choose the piece, and _you_ will _play_ the piece because _I_ chose it. If you fuck up, I'll replace you and you'll be one course short."

The glares intensified. Seishiro smiled. "All right. So where was I? First trumpet solo, right?" He leaned over and handed the sheets of music to Fai. "Pass it back to Subaru Sumeragi, please."

Subaru suddenly felt every single gaze of every single trumpeter in the section on him.

By the time his mind had truly registered what'd just been said, the music had already found its way into the trumpet section, and the second trumpet beside him eyed Subaru warily as the sheets were handed over. Subaru leafed through the papers as he lowered them onto the stand.

Internally, he winced.

It was _hard_. From the very first measure, it was already hard. He was more than sure that there were better trumpeters who would still struggle with this—only better trumpeters would somehow manage to get it right. Eventually. Whereas Subaru didn't think it was humanly possible for him to play this.

So why would Seishiro choose him?

Seishiro knew the skill gauge of every member in this orchestra. Why he would purposely give this music to Subaru knowing that was a bit unfathomable—or really unfathomable.

It wasn't as though Subaru wasn't talented. He _was_. He knew he was, but he also knew there were limits to his talents—unlike, say, the Fluorite twins. And it so happened that this was beyond his talents. Definitely beyond. If this didn't have such major solo parts, then Subaru was sure he could fake parts out with the rest of the trumpeters playing along with him. But soloing was an entirely different matter.

Seishiro had already moved on to telling Fai how to direct the rest of the violins in bowings and all the other strings, and filling in fingers and so on, when Subaru looked back up with the intention of returning the music and saying how it had to be—it must have been—a mistake, because with Seishiro's experience, it was ridiculous to give that important of a part to Subaru. Because even if he was a first trumpet, he wasn't first seat.

He'd tell Seishiro at the end of rehearsal.

* * *

The end of rehearsal came with the orchestra baying for the Maestro's blood. The sight-reading had started awfully and slowly treaded one step downhill every measure afterward. Subaru had only managed to hold on to the solo parts by an inch, and the only reason no one had glared at him for butchering the parts so badly was because comparatively, everyone else had butchered their parts worse.

Except, of course, for Yuui and Fai, but no one was counting superhumans.

More still, Seishiro had assigned that the next time they gathered for a rehearsal, he wanted everyone to have the entire piece well read and prepared to begin the memorization process. The most amount of time they'd ever had between practices was two weeks. And in this case, they had no idea when the next time they'd meet would be since Seishiro was still trying to adjust practices to his schedule.

Because there was no such thing as Seishiro adjusting to anyone _else's_ schedule. If you wanted to be in the orchestra, in the Maestro's orchestra, then you'd have to adjust _your_ schedule around _his_ practices.

It was just the way things were done.

Subaru had tucked his trumpet beneath a table near the door, and waited out the rush out of the practice room, until only he, Fai, Yuui, and Seishiro were left. The twins were languidly draped over the grand piano in ways that were sinful multiplied by twenty—from what Subaru gleaned the closer he approached them, they were talking about what island they'd go for Christmas.

"Su-ba-ru," Fai sang, gesturing to the trumpeter with an airy hand. "Yuui and I are thinking of going to Florida for winter vacation. Do you think you and Kamui want to come with?"

Subaru blinked and sat down beside Yuui on the bench—Fai was sprawled on the top of the piano. "Isn't Disney World all there is to do there?"

Yuui shook his head, licking Subaru's cheek teasingly. "No. There're lots of beaches and things, too. And Americans never go to Florida in the winter—they're always there during the summer, so it won't be all gross with tourists. You should come; it'll be fun. I'm planning to tell Kamui about it tomorrow."

Subaru shrugged, and turned his head. It looked like, from the piano's platform, that Seishiro had just about finished packing up his music. "I need to talk to Seishiro—I'll talk about Florida later, 'kay?" He stood up and waited for the twins to say something.

"Kamui wouldn't be happy," Yuui said, pouting. "He doesn't like you talking to bastards, remember?"

Subaru gave a little smile. "It's just a talk. And it's just about orchestra. Seishiro doesn't want to have much to do with me these days anyway. You two know that."

The brothers exchanged glances. Fai looked back to Subaru, and then over Subaru's shoulder. He shouted toward Seishiro's direction, "You'd better be nice to him! If you make him cry again, Yuui's going to have Satsuki castrate you."

Seishiro quirked an eyebrow, and threw the strap of his book bag over his head. He swiveled to head out the door. Subaru sighed and jogged lightly across the room after the conductor, grabbing his trumpet on the way out.

He stopped the Maestro at the corner before the main hallway of the music department—cutting carefully in step. Seishiro paused and looked down at the trumpeter with a tilt of his head. Subaru swallowed, his fingers fiddling around the handle of his instrument case. "Um…I think you made a mistake."

Seishiro raised an eyebrow.

Subaru set his trumpet case down and took out the sheets from his orchestra binder. "You gave me the solo part—like the main part, the part that's the reason it's called a Trumpet Voluntary."

Seishiro raised the other eyebrow. "It's not a mistake."

Subaru blinked.

"I want you to play the solo," Seishiro went on. "It's yours."

"But I can't play this," Subaru held the music up. "It's not possible. I'm not this good. You know that."

"All I know is that I want you to play the solo because you're fucking brilliant, and none of the other trumpets neither have the drive nor the time management skills to get it done." Seishiro said it simply, looking straight into Subaru's eyes, and showing Subaru that all those thousands upon thousands of screaming things had been quieted and shut back into their cage.

Subaru's fingers tightened around the case's handle. He nodded once, without bringing his head back up, going to stare at his feet. He'd expected for the fist to give his heart another jerk at the Maestro's words, but all that ended up happening was a familiar heat spreading through his face—alerting him definitely that he was blushing.

"Um…" he said quietly as Seishiro made to leave.

"Yes?" The Maestro raised an eyebrow.

"You…you left your pillow in my room." Subaru bit his lip. "You can come get it. Or…I can bring it for you, if you want. Unless you don't want it back, I s'pose."

Seishiro gazed at him for a moment. "Kyle's coming back from that business trip tonight, isn't he? And he said he'd meet up with you at Hexagon, didn't he?"

Subaru blinked. "Yeah. Why?"

Seishiro shrugged and smiled. "No reason. But how 'bout I pick you up—you can give me the pillow then—and then I'll give you a ride to Hexagon? I might want a drink or something tonight, anyway. Is that fine?"

"Oh." Subaru tilted his head. "Sure."

"It's settled, then." Seishiro bowed his head and then turned to walk away. He reached as far as the end of the hall before he heard Subaru's quiet voice echo toward him.

"Seishiro?"

The Maestro didn't turn, but he answered, "Yes?"

"Um…you're getting enough sleep and all, right? You look kind of tired." Hesitant and soft.

Seishiro closed his eyes behind his glasses. "I'm fine, Subaru."

* * *

_A/N: ZOMG. AN UPDATE. Though, a pretty crappy one at that. At least, in my opinion. I blame KAT-TUN and their fantastically whorish ways. Which I love. Seriously, they fanservice like no one's business and it pwns all. Maybe it's because I have no more TRC to read and obssess over that I have to put all my fangirl into KAT-TUN or just JE in general. Then again, I just realized one (probably one of the only ones) good point from the way CLAMP ended TRC._

_All right, so even though Kurogane and Fai didn't end up banging happily ever after in Nihon and they probably didn't get to bang at all in Clow, at LEAST we can come up with more worlds in future fanfics that they can bang in. And because it's an open ending, we can even be creative and come up with lots of different cosplay outfits to fit the imaginary worlds we come up with. Y'know. Like, as indirect avengement of the way CLAMP made Kurogane and Fai un-awesome in the ending. _

_Anyhoo. The ways I can wring angst out of Subaru and Seishiro astonish even me. And this story is about halfway done. So just five or so more chapters to go people. And then we get some Kyle-bashing to do. Compelled is inching towards the climax, too. It's going to be one of those climaxes-that-really-isn't. You'll see. Kind of._

_(I hate Science Fair so much)_

_(The Odyssey movie scares me)_


	30. Yearbook

Yearbook

**2005-2006**

5th grade was a year of silence. It was the first year Yuui and Fai started real school. Up until then, all they'd had was home schooling—home schooling, because that was how the orphanage had worked, and then home schooling because Kyle hadn't agreed to let them out until he'd broken them enough to assure that they wouldn't tell.

Not that anyone would believe them if they had.

They started in the last year of elementary school. To them, the school was nameless. It didn't matter what school it was—it just mattered that it was the first time they had real contact with children their age since before the unspeakable incident that had started it all.

But soon, it didn't matter anymore either that it was the first real contact they could have with children their age. Because what would they talk about? You made friends by finding things in common—thinking about things the same way; hating the same things, liking the same things, loving the same things.

_Do you like robots? They're cool, aren't they? My dad bought me one for my birthday last year._

_Doesn't it hurt when you get raped? Y'know, especially on the bathroom floor._

_Did you get that new video game that came out over the summer?_

_Don't you wish you knew how to work a gun so you can stop that man from hurting your brother?_

_What's your favorite TV show? I like watching college basketball with my big brother._

_Wouldn't it be cool if you could go to sleep looking forward to living the next day?_

In some respects, Yuui and Fai were worlds away from their classmates. In some respects, their classmates were worlds away from Yuui and Fai. And so, in all respects, the twins agreed silently and mutually not to speak to anyone but each other. There was no point in attempting to make other friends, because all those attempts would simply fall flat.

So they didn't speak. They were silent.

* * *

**2006-2007**

6th grade was a year of firsts. Yuui was the first one to finally put his foot down. He was tired of silence because he'd heard too much of all the children admiring his looks, and him just remaining silence. And he was tired of wondering in a sick, disgusting way about what it felt like to get raped whenever he imagined if Kyle had picked him instead of Fai.

He knew that boys weren't supposed to love boys, but it was better if they did. So he thought that maybe he could do the next best thing to getting raped. Maybe he could have sex with a girl. A girl who knew what she was doing—not the girls in his class; those girls that screamed in ecstasy just after finding out that one of them had gotten her first kiss.

Yuui wanted one of those pretty girls who he saw all the time at benefits and galas and balls and other society events—the ones that had shiny hair and exposed white breasts and backs; the ones that smiled brightly, flushed cheeks and necks, at Kyle whenever he spoke softly to them about his latest patients.

One thing he'd noticed about all girls, however, was that they were all pretty and fair. The exact way he and Fai were pretty and fair, and maybe that was why Kyle had taken them in and stolen their lives. And girls blushed maidenly and demurred and giggled quietly and shyly and maybe that was why Kyle had chosen Fai. Because Yuui was too cold and stony for that.

Fai was an angel with torn wings, and Yuui was a beautiful ice statue.

So Yuui took his opportunity when their music teacher had an assistant come in one day from the girls' high school nearby. He took his opportunity when they were the only ones left in the classroom. He took his opportunity when she bent over low to pick up a fallen sweater, and when his hip touched the skin of her thighs—right where her skirt ended.

6th grade was also the year that Yuui first saw Ashura.

* * *

**2007-2008**

7th grade was a year of brotherhood. Yuui had delved too deeply into sex—admittedly, at the moment, only with girls—but too deeply all the same. He saw Fai rarely, and he spoke to Fai rarely, and after weeks of this, it had started to bother Yuui. It had started to bother the pianist, because it hadn't started to bother Fai.

Yuui really didn't know why this was.

It took nearly half of the year for Yuui to figure out that it bothered him because he wanted Fai to need him. In fact, before this, he'd always thought that Fai _did_ need him—both physically for care after the ordeals with Kyle and the clients, and emotionally, for the assurance that he _wasn't_ a whore.

And while it was true that Fai did need all those things from Yuui, Fai wasn't one to demand them if Yuui wasn't willing to give, because that was how Fai was. If you didn't force feed the violinist, then he wouldn't take anything that he thought might be even the slightest bother for others.

For Fai, as long as Yuui was alive and well, nothing else really mattered. Fai could wash the blood off his thighs himself. He could drag himself back to their bedroom by himself. He could close his eyes and gather his thoughts together by himself. He could pick his pieces up by himself.

Realizing that sort of broke Yuui inside, because Yuui wanted to be needed by Fai. It broke Yuui inside, because he hadn't also realized, at the time, that even though Fai could do all those things by himself (because Yuui's brother was strong that way), it still brought a soft little smile to Fai's face whenever Yuui did it for him instead.

And it took the other half of the year for Yuui to realize _that_.

It only took an hour for Fai to laugh and gather his sobbing brother into his arms and tell him that the pianist was sometimes really, really retarded.

* * *

**2008-2009**

8th grade was a year of names. It was the year Fai and Yuui learned the names of those people who would become their family, and it was the year that Fai and Yuui _made_ a name for themselves.

During that year, Yuui had sex with Doumeki, with Kamui, with Subaru, and with Seishiro. Likewise, Yuui found a friend in Doumeki, in Subaru, and along with a friend, also a mentor and an older brother in Seishiro. In Kamui, Yuui found something that crossed the borders of brother and lover and friend all together. They'd separate back again before the end of that year, but that was the year Yuui met Kamui—the year Yuui learned what it was like to love someone other than Fai, and in a way different than the way he loved Fai.

With Seishiro, Yuui found out that Fai wasn't as delicate anymore emotionally as Yuui still believed him to be, because even though the violinist wasn't ready to have sex with anyone yet, Fai could still definitely tease and flirt just like Yuui. Yuui also realized through Seishiro, that there are more ways than just one to break someone's heart through sex, when Seishiro out loud dismissed his thoughts on how Subaru loved him, and proceeded to pound Yuui into a desk.

Through Doumeki, Yuui learned that he would meet people—and by 'meet', he meant 'have sex'—in his lifetime who were too good for him. Whether 'too good' meant 'too kind' or 'too gentle', if it just meant that Yuui was too dirty and traumatized for them, it all pointed to the same thing: Sometimes, there were people that you had to let go, because being with you would just hurt them.

From Subaru, Yuui learned that love was a deadly weapon. And a deadly weakness—one, which Yuui swore to himself he wouldn't allow himself to have. Especially if his opponent could be as merciless and unashamed as Seishiro.

8th grade was also the year he met a woman named Yuuko Ichihara.

* * *

_A/N: Because I fail at updating, and I really wanted to update something on my birthday (but I failed at that, too) so I just settled for something RESEMBLING an update, and CLOSE to my birthday--which was two days ago. Soo....I'm 15 now. If anyone cares. Meaning, I'll be able to participate in car accidents and the joys of traffic jams, very soon. Anyhow, I'd use the age old excuse of high school incapacitating me, except that I can't, because then I'd be lying. Unexpectedly, what with how everyone told me that high school = HELL, I actually like high school. I made friends much easier, and I actually look forward to going to school nowadays. Plus, it helps that we have like either a half day or a day off every week for some reason or another. Tomorrow I have an early dismissal, on my birthday (last Friday) we had a delayed opening, and THIS Friday, I have no school. _

_So, sort of, kind of, maybe, regarding to my birthday and school....I thought I'd put this up. I actually planned to go from 5th grade to past college, but I decided that after eighth grade, there were too many other characters and the secrets that came with them involved for it to just be from Yuui's POV (especially considering Yuui's a huge, self-pitying jerk starting sometime in junior year), so there will be another chapter coming up very soon (tonight, if not tomorrow or sometime this week....hopefully) with Yuuko contuining from 2010. And the reason I set Yuui and Fai up with these particular years, is because I set their age to mine. Just so it'd be easier. And then, of course, I set everyone else's ages/years accordingly. _

_(Anyone watched the NewS Winter Diamond DVD yet? All three discs? IT'S AMAZINGNESS THAT KILLS YOUR BRAIN WHEN YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING BIO HOMEWORK ABOUT THE JOYS OF OSMOSIS AND DIFFUSION)_


	31. S and the Maestro's Story VI

S and the Maestro's Story VI

"I thought you were going to get a drink," Yuuko said, as she watched Seishiro curl up in the far corner of the writing lab with a bottle of sake in one hand and his cell phone in the other. "At Hexagon. Where the _good _booze is. Rather than stealing some from the kitchens."

"I did." Seishiro licked the drops from his lips and clunked the bottle on the ground. He checked the screen of his phone. "I just decided I wanted something to-go while I was at it." He closed his phone. "So could you please leave me and my depression in peace?"

Yuuko swung around in her chair, crossing her legs. "It's not depression," she said smoothly. "It's stupidity. And you know it."

The Maestro took another swig of alcohol as a reply. "Whenever I see him touch Subaru, it feels like I'm steps away from committing a murder."

"Understandable. So why don't you?"

"Because it's unfair to Subaru."

Yuuko turned back to her work, backspacing a few sentences and highlighting out phrases here and there. "Since when have you ever cared?" She moved her mouse around on the keypad, leaning her chin against her free hand, eyes roaming around the monitor screen. "You're the Maestro. You fuck things up as you see fit—whether it ruins someone's life or not."

Seishiro took off his glasses and set them beside his feet on the floor. "I'm done fucking Subaru's life up."

The journalist ran a hand through the ends of her hair and gave a small yawn, blinking her long lashes at the screen in boredom. "You're going to let Kyle fuck it up instead?" Her eyes slid toward him calmly.

"Subaru can't love me anymore."

"Hm, why not?"

"It's retarded."

"Why?"

"Letting him be with me after what I've done to him is retarded."

Yuuko swiveled around in the chair again. "Drinking yourself to death is retarded, too, but yet here you are."

He gave her a look. And smiled. In a forced sort of way that stabbed puppies in all their vital organs.

She narrowed her eyes. "Look. You don't have to jump from the starting point to the finish point in one go. I'm not saying you just screw him into happily ever after—that's retarded, I agree. But avoiding him like this, while simultaneously acting like you're _planning_ to screw him into happily ever after is retarded, too. Especially when you aren't."

"The point?"

"The point is that you should at least talk to him. Use the trumpet solo as a fucking excuse if you need to. You're in the same orchestra and you're the conductor, and head of the music department. And you're in charge of the music library. There's twenty different reasons right there why you're allowed to talk to him."

"Kamui will have fits."

"Kamui has fits on a daily basis," Yuuko said breezily.

Seishiro stood up. "Then what exactly do you propose I do?"

"Just talk to him."

He looked at her plainly. "About what?"

"About whatever it is he needs to talk about. No running out on him anymore. If you're going to be such a hardass about not letting him forgive you because you did all of this to him—because you started all of this—then this time, stay till the end." She tilted her head, her face illuminated by the glare of the computer screen, hair falling softly from one shoulder.

The Maestro picked up the sake bottle, and went to stand in the doorway. "I don't understand why he loves me."

"Then that's something you can talk to him about, isn't it?"

* * *

Sometimes, Seishiro wondered what would've happened if he'd never become the Maestro. He wondered what would've happened if he'd just been simply infamous like the Fluorite or Sumeragi twins or even his own younger brother. Not ignored, but not godly, either. Known and loved and obsessed over at just the right level.

Sometimes, Seishiro wondered if he'd still be with Subaru. If he'd never become the Maestro, would he not have felt the need to put all that pain on Subaru? Would he have kept to Subaru instead of constantly fucking right in front of Subaru's face—constantly giving Subaru the silent middle finger? Because if Seishiro had not become the Maestro, then maybe his need to prove himself as infamously and bastardly as possible wouldn't have evolved into such great proportions.

Sometimes—and now, as Seishiro stood in Subaru's doorway, staring down, face to face, with the trumpeter, was one of those times—Seishiro wondered if Subaru wished that the conductor had never become the Maestro, to.

"I thought you'd be at Kyle's."

In his usual custom, Subaru blinked his wide green eyes—perfectly round and perfectly perfect, as always. "No. He has patients this weekend. It's on and off—sometimes I go and sometimes I don't. But…um, why would you come if you thought I wasn't going to be here?"

Seishiro grinned. "A little bird told me, too."

Subaru bit his lip, and leaned forward slightly—but just slightly was enough so that Seishiro could see down to the trumpeter's waistband when the loose collar of the t-shirt fell with Subaru's movement. "You smell like sake."

"I should hope so. I rounded off a bottle or so." Seishiro shifted his weight back to his heels. "You look like you're ready for bed."

"Oh. No." Subaru shook his head once. "I just changed so I'm ready—I was actually going to start looking over the music for the voluntary." He paused. "Um. D'you want to…?"

Seishiro aimed his gaze at those round, round green eyes. "If you want me to."

Subaru looked like he was going to say one thing, and then decided upon another. But whichever thing he was about to say, both looked equally painful for him to say them. "It's…" he stopped again. Looked up at Seishiro with a sort of determination that made the conductor's chest hurt. "I always want you to."

Seishiro ground out a smile. He stepped through the doorway, brushing shoulders against Subaru. He heard Subaru close the door with a faint click and follow into the living room. The center table, the one that stood before the television, was covered from edge to edge with sheets of music, along with a few pencils and erasers for marking, and on the ground besides, Subaru's trumpet stood at the ready.

"It really isn't that difficult," Seishiro said. "The name the piece's gotten throughout the years just makes you think it is."

Subaru plopped down onto the carpet and leaned forward against the table, arms cushioning his chin, as his eyes swerved down to the music in a way that Seishiro thought was rather adorable. "Well. I never underestimate anything that I have to perform. It's got to be perfect—this one especially." He glanced up at Seishiro. "Why're you still standing?"

"You haven't invited me to sit down."

"Oh. Um. You can sit down," Subaru made it sound like a question instead of an invitation.

Seishiro sat down beside Subaru, stretching out his legs under the table and crossing them at the ankles. "Why does this one have to be perfect?" He picked up one of the pencils absently and tapped Subaru's head with it.

The trumpeter's hand went to his head. "Ow." Subaru furrowed his eyebrows and bit his lip. "I don't know. I s'pose since it's your graduation and all, I should try hard not to make any mistakes, right?"

"You would care if it's my graduation?"

Subaru's thoughtfulness seemed to shift into bemusement. "Hm? Well, yes. Of course I would."

"You'd care for it more than just as seeing me out Akamizu for good?" Seishiro knew that he was doing it again. He was being a bastard and goading Subaru into saying something that Subaru probably didn't want to talk about yet, but Seishiro couldn't stop himself because he was really an asshole bastard. And he knew it. He knew it. He knew it. He knew it. But he wanted to know what Subaru was thinking even more. He was such a bastard that he wanted to hear, straight from Subaru's own lips and with Subaru's own voice, that Subaru did still care. That whatever Kyle might use in the future to fuck with Seishiro's head wasn't true—and Seishiro wouldn't believe the doctor, as long as he'd heard it from Subaru firsthand and from Subaru willingly.

But Subaru just looked even more confused and maybe even a little hurt. Seishiro could more or less hear Yuuko shaking her head at him, and rolling her eyes because Seishiro really sucked at this. He always made things worse, even when he wasn't trying to, and maybe that was why he'd decided to take up the bastard character permanently anyhow. "Um…I don't know. Do you want me to care like that?"

Something right under Seishiro's throat and right above his stomach cracked, fissured into two pieces with a black, gaping space in between. And, perhaps, that kind of injury was immediately visible, because Subaru's eyes widened and his hands went out abruptly, holding on to Seishiro's arm. The trumpeter went up on his knees. "Wait—no. I mean, I _do_ care, but I don't know if you _want_ me to care like that. Y'know? I do care, though."

Subaru bit his lip again, while in wait for Seishiro's answer—a flash of perfect, pearly white against glowing pink. The kind of small, swift, and sweet show of anxiousness that was so tangible, it was _just_ that kissable. And it might've felt like a better moment, if there wasn't so much black electricity stinging through the air. Or maybe not even that—it was more like damp and slippery and stone cold, and it slipped through Seishiro's fingers no matter how tightly he held on.

"Why should you care?" And therein that question was what truly made Seishiro a bastard. The way Seishiro couldn't even hold himself back from biting out callous remarks from pure spite in the guise of pleasant conversation—smile and all, and the smile making it just that much more awful and rotten sweet. Only now, it didn't have the tinge of a smile to it, because that took more energy than Seishiro's currently semi-drunken state had the ability to make.

But Subaru wouldn't know that. How could Subaru know that Seishiro didn't mean the way it came out of his mouth? How could Subaru know that Seishiro didn't mean to question why Seishiro needed Subaru to care, but why Subaru would want to care? And how could Subaru know that all Seishiro really wanted to do so badly right now was to bury his face in the trumpeter's soft black hair and never let go?

Subaru couldn't know any of that. All Subaru knew was what he was hearing and seeing and feeling. And all Seishiro knew was that Subaru was hearing his cruel words, seeing Seishiro's spiteful, lying smile, and feeling like utter shit, because that was how Seishiro was treating him.

Subaru blinked his eyes once blankly at Seishiro, and when realization of what exactly Seishiro had said flushed back into Subaru's face, there was plenty of hurt embarrassment that came along. The trumpeter's tongue darted out, and he bit his lip again, shifting his gaze hesitantly, fingers digging into the carpet fibers. Just infinitesimally, Subaru widened the distance between where he and Seishiro sat. "Y-you're…" Subaru's voice shook. "You're right. I shouldn't. I'm sorry."

There it was again. Why was Subaru always apologizing? It seemed like every time Seishiro said something, Subaru took it as blaming the trumpeter for something he did wrong—for something he thought Seishiro was upset at him for. Subaru had never used to do this. Seishiro didn't get it.

However, Seishiro did understand that he had to fix this—there was already a crack in whatever beginnings of a bridge they'd begun to rebuild, and at the moment, Seishiro couldn't spare even an ounce of cement. He wondered if touching Subaru's cheek would be crossing the line. Even if Kyle clearly did not deserve any sort of line, Subaru did. But Seishiro always had to have some sort of physical contact—the Maestro got his point across much easier if there was _something_.

The conductor reached carefully across into the trumpeter's lap and pulled one of the hands out, fingers slowly brushing over knuckles and joints and pale, pale skin. Seishiro breathed in deeply. And then out deeply. "_I'm_ sorry."

Subaru's head turned so suddenly, that even Seishiro heard the small crack from the sophomore's neck. "Excuse me?"

A corner of Seishiro's mouth tugged upward. "I'm happy you care."

All Subaru continued to do was blink dumbly. "You're not _very_ drunk, right, Seishiro?" He looked down warily at their connected hands. A kind of wariness that was so perfectly child-like and wide-eyed that Seishiro wanted to brush his tongue promptly against the trumpeter's cheekbone.

"Not very." Seishiro reached out for the first sheet and adjusted his glasses. "So it looks like you tried putting in dynamics—noticed that, did you?"

Subaru edged around the conductor's shoulder, glancing at the paper. "Mm. Yeah. I was just fooling around here," he pointed at the pencil marks. "It's all up to you, and I didn't know what you wanted, so I was just trying out stuff. You already have your own ideas marked, I know."

Seishiro put the paper down, and leaned his elbows on the table, studying Subaru's handwriting—foreign in some ways, because dynamics were written with letters, rather than characters. "Not necessarily. Some of these are good." His hand glided over the music. "And some of them coincide with mine, anyhow."

"Really?" Subaru's voice came out in a breathy tone of relief. "Oh, that's cool." Seishiro turned just in time to catch the trumpeter's face light up in a tiny, tiny smile—mouth open, white teeth parted. It was a smile that had nothing to do with Seishiro—just a simple, simple smile because Subaru genuinely loved music and everything to do with it. And Seishiro knew that that lovely, lovely smile had nothing to do with he himself because Subaru wasn't even looking at the Maestro—he was looking thoughtfully, immersed and wide-eyed, at the music.

And then, Seishiro felt a hand on his wrist, and round green eyes looking into his, and Subaru earnestly asking, "Seishiro? So, do you think we should start the crescendo at the trill, or just start out forte? If we do the crescendo, even if the Dome echoes, it'd be better to start out mezzo forte, don't you think? I could try and make it louder from forte, but it'd be weird for a formal procession, y'know?" Subaru's tongue flickered out, went round his lips once, before hanging out the corner of his mouth in concentration, the image perfectly perfected with a little furrowing of his eyebrows.

Subaru's small hand felt like the weight of the world on Seishiro's wrist. It felt so heavy and cold, that Seishiro was surprised the table could support all the weight. But Seishiro was glad. Because it would take nothing less than the weight of the world to weigh Seishiro's hand down from reaching up to tug at Subaru's earlobe, stroking the soft parts of hair right along the nape of his neck, and tracing the tip of the trumpeter's tongue.

"It's fine how you wrote it," Seishiro said, slowly slipping his wrist away, making it seem as though he was intending to point out notes with that hand's fingers. "Mezzo forte would bring the right amount of attention, but not so much that the audience couldn't be lead on as it deepens in."

"Cool," Subaru said again, simply, his eyes focused still on the music. A piece of hair fell against his forehead, and before Seishiro could remind himself not to touch Subaru, Subaru himself began pulling absently at the short lock of dark hair.

Which, was actually ten times worse, because Seishiro now had to _watch_ Subaru be utterly tantalizing in twenty levels of unfairness.

"When's the next time we're going to get together to run this?" Subaru asked after a pause. The trumpeter clasped his hands together and put them against his mouth, watching Seishiro expectantly for the answer.

But Seishiro himself was watching the way Subaru's long, dark eyelashes brushed infinitesimally with the tops of his cheekbones every time the trumpeter blinked those perfectly round, perfectly wide, perfectly green, green eyes. Seishiro was watching the way Subaru looked so honestly, waiting for the conductor to give him an answer. Seishiro was watching because he couldn't stop thinking about how warm and soft and pale Subaru looked in just the barest t-shirt and sweatpants. Seishiro was watching because he loved how Subaru's thin fingers curled around his too-long sleeves.

And Seishiro watched because something in his chest and stomach pulled tighter and tighter until it hurt to even glance away, but that something felt as though it would pull even tighter and hurt even more if Seishiro _did_ glance away. "We'll probably run it sometime in the next few days—sometime this week."

Subaru's hands fell away from his mouth, and his jaw dropped a little bit. "_This_ week?" His eyebrow furrowed as he looked down at the music, his mind clearly going to straight to wondering if he'd have the piece even close to a practicable state by that time.

"Subaru?" Seishiro murmured.

Subaru glanced up slowly. "Mm?"

"I'm sorry I left like that last week. I didn't mean to."

The trumpeter's eyes went perfectly round again—round_er_, like dinner plates. He swiftly looked down, but Seishiro could still see easily that Subaru's eyes were searching blankly, confused and hurt again.

See? _See? _

This was precisely why Seishiro so much more preferred to be a bastard. No matter what he did—no matter if he apologized or not—it seemed that no one understood. It was so much easier and less troublesome if Seishiro just went along with what everyone already thought—it kept him from getting hurt, anyhow. Why should Seishiro try just for Subaru? Subaru was just another person. Subaru wasn't even that _special_ like Fai and Yuui.

And with that, Seishiro was proud to say that just then, he'd almost reached semi-convincing of his relentless, epically always failing attempts to persuade at least _one_ cell in his body to believe that Subaru wasn't special.

Because even if self-pitying, arrogant jackass sluts like Yuui thought that Subaru was nothing special, Seishiro thought he was. Seishiro thought the trumpeter really, really was. And even if Subaru never knew what Seishiro really thought of him, never understood that even when Seishiro was a bastard to him and smiled while being one, that Seishiro was just being stupid by hurting himself whenever he hurt the trumpeter—

Then that was okay with the Maestro.

"Um," Subaru's voice had barely any more sound than a whisper. He was still looking into his lap, letting hair fall over his expression. "I—um…I have your pillow. The one you left." His voice was absolutely _tiny_. "I can go get it for you now."

Seishiro didn't _care_ about the fucking pillow. "Subaru, did you hear me?" He kept his tone in check as much as a bastard could. "I said I was sorry."

And then, Subaru did something that completely topped everything else the trumpeter had ever done in unawares to make Seishiro really feel like the total bastard he was.

Subaru lifted one hand and wiped his cheeks quickly with the back of it, nodding his head hastily, fiercely—desperately, almost. "I did. I did, sorry."

The clawing tightness in Seishiro's torso started to worm its way into the pits of his stomach and the edges of his forearms. Soon, it'd probably even work its way into the tips of his toes and fingers.

Seishiro closed his eyes for a tiny, discreet moment, opened them, and then carefully—carefully—look that one hand away from Subaru's face, and sure enough, it was soft and warm and pale and there was saltwater smeared on the skin. "Why do you always say sorry when it's not your fault?" Seishiro held onto the trumpeter's hand, and the Maestro used his own free hand to gently tilt Subaru's face up.

Subaru's shoulders were trembling from restraining back the tears that had ended up coming out anyhow, and his teeth were digging into his bottom lip, showing that even then, he was trying even further to keep silent any sounds that would've given away his crying. "I don't know." He shook his head clumsily. "I don't know."

Seishiro could sense that Subaru was tired—college wasn't an easy road to walk, no matter who the walker was. This late at night, anyone could think about matters enough to stress themselves out, and Seishiro talking about things like this, Subaru wouldn't even have had to _think_ to completely kill his mind. Sometimes, after a night of sleep, minds were cleared and emotions were calmed. "Hey," the Maestro said gently, finally bringing back a small, small smile to give to Subaru. "How about this—the next time I finally have the balls to apologize for being a bastard, how about instead of 'sorry', you just say, 'forgiven'? I'd love to hear that—it makes bastards feel better about their bastard-selves, y'know?"

This time, Subaru's shoulders seemed to stop trembling for a moment, just to shake from a bit of a chuckle. Seishiro held the trumpeter's face and swept the tears in one go with his thumbs. "So, let's try it—Subaru," Seishiro said, playfully solemn, "I'm sorry that I was a bastard last week and left."

Subaru smiled quietly. "Forgiven."

The tightness loosened just a little, and Seishiro breathed just a little easier. To finally admit to himself that Subaru had this much power over him was terribly frightening. But that was probably because bastards were cowards anyway.

* * *

_A/N: OMG. I ACTUALLY UPDATED AGAIN. THIS IS A MIRACLE. _

_Anyhoo, I swore to myself from now on (starting with this chapter) that every day, I'd write at least one paragraph (dialogue, not included) of any chapter of any story, because in the tiny, tiny chance that I ever do become a writer on the side of being a doctor, then I would not want my editor coming and busting up my house with a shotgun, and holding aforementioned shotgun over my head as he/she waits for me to finish the chapter(s). And plus, I was in great need of angst this week, what with listening to Ohno Satoshi's (of Arashi) Take Me Faraway. And then TaeYang's (of Big Bang) Wedding Dress. _

_So, for the first time in forever, I'm actually asking for reviews because this is also the first time in forever that I actually am SATISFIED with a chapter. _


	32. S and the Maestro's Story VII

S and the Maestro's Story VII

_It was dark. _

_When Subaru opened his eyes, it was dark except for the white, blaring light coming from the screen of Seishiro's laptop, balanced in the Maestro's blanketed, naked lap as the conductor sat beside Subaru in bed. Through the lighting and through his disoriented sight, Subaru could make out the faint outline of glasses on Seishiro's face, and the focused expression behind them. The lights played shadows on the conductor's bare chest and shoulders. _

_Subaru faintly saw Seishiro's outline shift, and fingers moved away from the keyboard to curl in the trumpeter's hair absently. "Go back to sleep."_

"_What are you working on?" Subaru stretched, arching his back and letting his shoulder blades nestle into the mattress comfortably. Seishiro's fingers had trailed down to caress with that same gentle mindlessness at Subaru's cheek. _

_Seishiro one-handedly typed in a few more sentences and then said, "Just some SAT prep stuff. I have a few scores to do after this, though, but I'm thinking I'll look over those over breakfast."_

_Subaru turned onto his side, fully-facing the Maestro's silhouette. His eyebrows furrowed, and he frowned. "You need to get some sleep. If you told me that you had all this work, I wouldn't have come over."_

_The mouse's clicking stopped and Seishiro's head twisted around to look completely at Subaru. The hand followed the line of Subaru's face and stopped just below his chin, fingers drumming against the beginning of the trumpeter's throat, tilting his face up level to Seishiro's. _

_Seishiro smiled. "And that's why I didn't tell you."_

_Subaru still looked concerned. "But you've got work to do—it's your junior year and you have all this stuff, and you _deserve_ to get into Akamizu. If you're always playing around with me, you're not going to get in—and then you can't be a Sacred. And you should. You deserve it—all of it. I want you to have everything."_

_The Maestro tilted his head, the smile turning curious. He raised one eyebrow and ducked his head down, down, down until he was nose-to-nose with Subaru. Seishiro swiftly touched his lips to the trumpeter—surprise—and then murmured right against the corner of Subaru's mouth, "I already have everything."_

* * *

But apparently, Seishiro thought as he penciled in the last few dynamics in the last section of the Trumpet Voluntary, everything hadn't been enough for the Maestro. Or rather, somewhere along the road, he'd decided that there were different kinds of "everything" and the one he'd _thought_ he'd wanted included abusing and then discarding Subaru. Because apparently, somewhere along the road, Seishiro must have smoked one too many joints, and thought that "everything" could _exist_ without Subaru.

And Seishiro knew, Seishiro had always known, that someone like Subaru—kind, patient, lenient, soft and warm and pale and pretty—could have anyone he wanted. Even those lower socialites, always toting around their ponytail-swishing, Evian-drinking girlfriends, even they had always watched Subaru with at least a sort of lust, if not also infatuation. And even they, even those lower socialites, would've at least treated Subaru slightly better than Seishiro—at least not worse. At least they wouldn't have abused the trumpeter into a bloody pulp, left him traumatized without so much as an apology, and then come back without an explanation.

But if those lower socialites were the worst of what Subaru could get, there were socialites much closer to hitting home that were so much better that Subaru could just as easily get. Ones who _wanted_ to give Subaru everything, and who'd make Subaru _their_ everything.

Like Kyle.

Because no matter how much of a rapist pimping jackass he'd been to Fai, there was no question that he treated Subaru no less than Subaru deserved—something that Seishiro had never done, even during the better parts of when they were together.

Because even then, even during the time period that memory had taken place, _even then_, Seishiro had never once—_not one single time_—told Subaru that he loved him.

Not once, and at the rate things were going—if they were even going at all—Seishiro never would. Subaru had finally found something right and normal and sane for once, and Seishiro wasn't going to ruin it no matter how much his bastard self really, really, really wanted to. Because a tiny part of him, that tiny obstinate part that never shut up, it wouldn't stop telling him—_whispering to him_—that it'd be so easy, _so easy_, to just steal Subaru right from Kyle's grasp and this time, treat Subaru right.

However, the last time Seishiro had listened to that stubborn little voice, nothing good had come out of it—in fact, it was that very voice that ended him up in this situation in the first place.

Seishiro put down the pencil quietly and looked to the side and down at Subaru, fallen asleep on the ground an hour ago, head cushioned on a throw pillow from the sofa behind them. The Maestro had spread a blanket over the trumpeter as soon as his breathing had evened and the conductor was sure he was asleep.

The black tips of Subaru's hair were just barely tickling Seishiro's thigh. Seishiro watched Subaru—watched how the trumpeter's lashes contrasted perfectly against his skin, watched how his skin glowed in the faint lighting that was left in the room, watched how his lips parted every few seconds for steady breath, watched how his hands were gathered close beneath his chin and against his body, the way that Subaru always had slept.

That little voice was practically begging Seishiro—_He's asleep, so just touch him. Just one touch._

He wanted to. Immensely. So much. So close.

_So warm. So fragile. So pale. So soft._

_So strong._

Stronger than Seishiro would ever be.

Because Seishiro was weak. He was weak, so he let his fingers drift through the feathery, silky hair, pressing into the scalp and caressing down to the trumpeter's ear. He leaned closer, leaned over, leaned until his face was right above Subaru's, breaths mingling and ghosting.

He closed his eyes, unmoving.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay, and watch Subaru wake up when the sunlight started to filter through the blinds. He wanted to stay, and kiss Subaru good morning. He wanted to stay, and laugh at the look of surprise and elation on Subaru's face when he saw the music already finished. He wanted to stay and sleep with his face nestled into Subaru's hair and his arms around Subaru's waist.

But he couldn't.

He had to be gone before Subaru woke up. Seishiro would have a hangover next morning anyhow—going to sleep here and waking up with Subaru would just give the trumpeter something else to have to attend to.

Even so, as Seishiro stumbled to his feet, feeling the effects of the alcohol _really_ sink in, he wished more than ever that he could run a spear through Kyle's stupid face.

* * *

If Subaru was being honest, he'd have to say that he wasn't surprised at all that Seishiro was gone when he woke up. However, if Subaru were being honest, he'd also have to say that he was surprised when he saw all the dynamics already finished and labeled on the sheet music.

The only part he was wondering about from last night was that Seishiro still hadn't picked his pillow up. He shifted the pile of music to one corner of the table and sat up straighter, gathering the folds of the blankets around him, and tightening his body subconsciously to keep the cold out. Subaru looked at the clock beneath the television. It was a few minutes after eight, which, considering the time he'd gone to sleep at—or rather, fallen to sleep at—eight wasn't at all bad. It meant that he had over an hour to shower, eat breakfast, and get to the Glass to compile this newly done music into his cubicle.

Subaru rubbed his socked feet against each other. It was _cold_. He rubbed his hands together, too, clasping them beneath the blanket, and holding his fingers close to his body.

Last night, Seishiro had been…nice…? If that was the word. Subaru wasn't sure how to describe the way the Maestro had acted last night, but "nice" wasn't quite the word he'd been needing. Because it wasn't really nice, so much as just…different. Seishiro had always had his own brand of nice—kind, rather than nice. And even then, a different sort of kindness. But the other night had just been off. As if Seishiro was forcing either the kindness or something else down, but one or the other kept bubbling up.

It'd been weird. But Subaru was slowly, very, very slowly, beginning to feel as though Seishiro didn't hate him anymore—didn't even simply dislike him. After all, Seishiro was not so much a tolerable person. He would call your shit out if he saw it, and only when he felt like it. And lately, Seishiro seemed to be doing nothing but dancing around Subaru in a wary circle, as though the conductor was waiting for something to happen with Subaru.

Subaru wasn't quite sure what. Perhaps Seishiro was waiting for something to happen with Kyle, which would make sense to Subaru. The trumpeter himself was waiting for a chance when the guilt wouldn't be too bad to simply tell Kyle that they were both just biding time being together and even if Kyle did love Subaru, Subaru was too retarded and fucked up in love with Seishiro to love anyone else back.

He stood up, still holding the blanket around his shoulders, careful not to trip himself as the cloth dragged behind him and around his feet when he walked into his bedroom. Fai and Yuui must have still been asleep, with their willowy bodies toasty warm thanks to the heating they always hogged. Although, truth be told, it was always the others that complained—Kamui made sure to complain lots to Yuui. Subaru was quite sure that he didn't mind so much. If the twins were cold, then they were cold. Subaru could get by.

The trumpeter sat down on his bed and stared at the window, the snow gathering in the corners and on the ledge. He wondered if it would hurt a lot if he just stayed friends with Seishiro. It wasn't a choice, of course. Whatever Seishiro said went, and whatever Seishiro wanted would happen. If Seishiro them to be friends again, then Subaru would have to do so. Subaru just wanted to know around how hard the fist would start pummeling at his heart.

* * *

Seishiro wasn't a stalker.

No, _really_.

He just happened to be at the Glass around the same time that he had casually estimated Subaru might also come by. A casual estimate, because asking Fai and Yuui and even Yuuko and perhaps Hokuto about the way Subaru spent his weekends working on music and how and when and where still fell under the definition of a _casual estimate_.

It _completely_ did. For serious.

Besides, in his rush that one time to leave, Seishiro had forgotten to take Subaru's worn out gloves with him, and then he still hadn't gotten his pillow back either. Though that part was probably due to the fact that Seishiro was completely inebriated anyhow with the addition of his mind stumbling in drunken circles trying to straighten his thoughts of yet another confusing night with Subaru that made him feel like more of a bastard than any of his past deeds every could've.

The Maestro ran a hand through his hair and pushed up his glasses. His feet shifted slightly when he heard soft footsteps faintly outside the Glass's door, but he didn't turn around when he sensed the door opening.

Of course, he knew that it was Subaru. Subaru would have wanted to immediately register the newly marked music into the Glass's library before anything could happen to it—along with definitely making a back-up copy and scanning it onto his thumb drive.

He hadn't known, however, that Subaru would come with slightly damp hair, ruffled and blown about from the winter wind, expression still adorably waking-up and droopy with sleep. The trumpeter's face was tucked between the woolen layers of the scarf wrapped around his neck. Subaru looked nicely surprised at seeing Seishiro already sitting at one of the Glass's tables.

"Good morning," Seishiro said.

"You're not hungover?" Subaru blinked.

Seishiro smiled. "I don't even get a 'hello' anymore?"

The trumpeter tilted his head, taking steps toward Seishiro. Subaru lifted the strap of his book bag over his head and set it on the table, pulling out a chair for himself and taking a seat beside the Maestro. "Why did you finish the music without me last night?"

"I didn't want to keep you up," Seishiro said, folding his hands in front of him. He looked into Subaru's eyes. "You looked so tired."

For once, Subaru didn't shy away from the concern nor did he look like someone just accused him of murder again. No. Subaru looked right back up into Seishiro's eyes and said, "I think you're more tired. You even got up early and all just now. How many hours of sleep did you get, two or so? And then there's the hangover."

"How do you know I've even got a hangover?"

Subaru tinily half-smiled. "'Course you do. Oh, and you still left your pillow at my dorm."

Seishiro adjusted his glasses, and sighed a bit. "I know."

Now it got quiet.

Subaru looked down at the table. "You know," he went on softly, "you didn't have to go so fast. It's okay to take your time and sleep in my dorm—I don't care. You don't have to go before I wake up or stuff like that. I mean, I know you have things to do…but…just…" He trailed off, biting his lip.

Subaru was still staring at the table, his eyebrows now slightly furrowed, as if pondering how to rephrase his answer—or if his meaning got through right. Seishiro had to break into another small smile. He _had_ to. "Really?"

The trumpeter looked up, surprised. "Really."

Seishiro just kept smiling.

Then—

Subaru smiled back.

* * *

_A/N: I have to say it. I just HAVE to. _

_I'm uploading this chapter on my new laptop. _

_There. I said it. The magic words NEW LAPTOP._

_Okay, so getting a laptop for Christmas isn't all that big a deal, and I'm pretty sure that most of you reading this can just stroll into a Best Buy and buy yourself a laptop, and probably a lot of other stuff, but c'mon here. I'm a high school freshman. And I'm a dork. A laptop is major for me. I love it like the firstborn I haven't yet had. Plus, it's SO PRETTY. It's all mocha-ish and Toshiba, and the MOUSE IS SO PRETTY, too. And now youtube doesn't bother me about downloading a new server, and I can watch subbed JE stuff without having to beg people to upload because I can download it myself AND I HAVE NEW WORD. I LOVE THE NEW-EVEN-IF-CONFUSING WORD. So, yeah, this is super speshul because it's the first upload EVAR on my new laptop. _

_I should probably name it. _

_Maybe I'll name it bWitch? Or Yuuko. _

_Also, another significant mark is that there was only a two day interval between this update and the last. _

_But I consider the newlaptopthing much more significant._

_Again, I'm a dork._


	33. S and the Maestro's Story VIII

S and the Maestro's Story VIII

What if the months had eyes? What if they had minds and mouths and thoughts and voices? Would they be able to tell tales greater than the greatest of storytellers? Would they know how to detail, in such subtlety, the lives and stories of all the seasons?

Because had they eyes, the twelve months of years upon years would have seen everything that happened from the beginning of time, from the achievements of history's heroes to the tiny life spans of even tinier aphids.

And if the twelve months of years upon years had the ability to see actions known by no one save for the ones who execute those actions, what would they see if they wrapped their time-wrinkled hands around the lives known truly by no one save for the ones living them? What if they held the story of two lovers gently in their time-wrinkled hands?

What would they see?

The first month that would see any progress would be that of November. November would see Seishiro Sakurazuka beginning to relearn how to make Subaru Sumeragi smile. The gusts of autumn would hear laughs and unintentionally flirtatious voices leaking from the doorway of the Glass. The fallen leaves would fly and whirl around Subaru's lit window, peering through the curtains and happening upon Seishiro diligently coaching Subaru on his trumpet solo.

December would see, through its frosty warm eyes, Seishiro presenting a touched and confused and hurt Subaru, on Christmas Day, with new gloves precisely like the ones Subaru had been given by the conductor years upon years ago, a time when only they and lovely February remember. The blue, swirling winter would cup its icy hands against the door of the Glass and lend a cold, listening ear, only to hear low voices speaking softly about matters light and matters heavy. December would blow against Subaru's bedroom window and after wiping away the tiny ice patch that would form, December would see the two musicians sitting against each other late into the night, still talking and talking endlessly.

January would bring the blanket of a new year with it, and with it, bring temporarily beautiful comfort and ease between Subaru and Seishiro. But January would also later see that comfort and ease return to tension and confusion. The remaining frosty winds would hear twin voices arguing, and Subaru running out of his brother's dorm, refusing to talk about why he was never appearing with Kyle anymore. The new year's first month would witness trumpeter tears kept secret as Kyle pressed and as the guilt started to form.

February would see the shadows beneath Subaru's eyes darken as the sun began to remain longer in the sky. The month between the Father Winter's death and Sister Spring's birth would watch as the light of Subaru's window refusing to go out until the sun had almost risen, and February, as it watched, would hear a trumpet playing all the while. The month of the day of lovers would see the Seishiro losing time to spend with Subaru again as the day when the Maestro and those of his age would have to leave Akamizu. Without Seishiro, February saw that there was no one else who would go so far as intruding into Subaru's privacy to make sure that the trumpeter was sleeping properly, to ask why the tears flowed from shadowed eyes, to say that there was no need to work so hard.

And then there was March.

* * *

Subaru stared at the ceiling through the thick, stifling darkness. He was sticky and slicked with sweat, warm and heaving beneath the sheets, not something he hadn't been through times before, but this time it was different. This time there was no sense of relief and sleep approaching and just plain perfection ringing through his body. There was only panic and a need to get something out, and for someone else to touch him, to erase the touch he'd just been through, and none of this made any sense because Kyle, who was sleeping soundly beside him, had done nothing to hurt Subaru.

And yet only minutes before, Subaru had frozen in the middle of sex—really in the middle of sex—and just told Kyle to stop. To stop for reasons that Subaru had said, guiltily and shamefully unable to look at the doctor, he didn't want to divulge. To stop right in the middle, and Kyle did nothing but gently kiss Subaru's lips, pull out, and quietly joking about how Subaru should make it up later to him tomorrow night before spring break started, as Kyle would have to attend a doctor's convention all of the vacation and then leave because the doctor's time at Akamizu ended with spring break rather than summer.

Instead of feeling relieved, Subaru felt guilty. Infinitely guilty, even if he had agreed to meet up with Kyle later with the intent of setting things straight because Kyle didn't deserve this and Subaru felt like a bastard, all irony aside. And he wasn't even able to cry himself to sleep anymore because most nights like these were spent sleepless and hot and sticky no matter how brisk the March winds still were. He wasn't able to sleep because for some reason he was horny. Always horny.

And he didn't know _why_.

Furthermore, it wasn't the smoldering, lusty horny that Fai and Yuui used to get high from, and the smoldering, lusty horny that Subaru loved to course through his veins as well. No. This was something that made Subaru panic and thrash in bed whenever Kyle got too close because it was stifling and too hot and uncomfortable and it wanted _out now_. And Subaru was too afraid to spend nights at Kyle's anymore, making the doctor more concerned, because some mornings, Subaru would wake up with thick, liquid white between his legs and not remember a thing.

But those were the good mornings. The bad mornings were when Subaru awoke with thick, liquid white between his legs and _remembered_ his dreams.

And some nights, like this night, Subaru would lay in bed trying his fucking hardest to either ignore or let go of the feeling and just go to sleep. But those nights, and this night, would simply end futilely. These sorts of nights, like tonight, ended with Subaru finally losing it and more or less sprinting out of bed naked, into the bathroom door, flipping on the lights, locking the door, collapsing against the cold tile floor, wrapping both sets of fingers around himself and pumping.

It would end with Subaru splattering himself, from his stomach to the tips of his bangs, with yellowish-white, and it would end with Subaru wiping himself off wearily with a towel before dragging his body back into bed and most likely spending another fitful sleep beside a man he had been lying to for the better part of the year.

And this night did. It ended with all of those things and with the addition of one new thing.

Tonight, after the yellowish-white splattered, but before the cleanup, Subaru whispered to himself as he looked at the mirror, commencing to wash his hands and face, "You're disgusting."

* * *

_A/N: I know it's short, and as is now the custom with me these days, it's been another millenium since the last update. But I thought that it needed to be short for a good enough impact. Like...in the last few chapters, it was like, "Oh yeah...they're friends and all again and happily ever after", but we all know that they're adults and they don't just like-like each other e_o, and also since we all know that even when they were staring to be BFFs again, Seishiro was already wishing dirty about Subaru, but Subaru's the clean little angel-that's-not-really, so....erm yeah. _

_This was supposed to be a really insightful-speech-like-moral-values-crafty-writing author's note wherein I show you that I actually do know what I'm doing, but as per usual, it didn't happen so...yeah. I'm also no longer pestering for review since I don't think that someone who updates ever other ice age (if anyone lives near D.C., then you'll be experiencing the 3rd ice age as well, show of empathetic hands?) has the right to deserve reviews. ~_~_


	34. Heartbreaker: M and K

**Heartbreaker**

Tables upturned, and chairs on their sides. Books on the ground and their pages stained with water, and water bottles spilled. Hidden alcohol crashed over the wooden floors, and the air potent with the scent. Geometry homework was torn to shreds, sprinkled all over the floor, sticky with liquor and drenched with water. A chemistry textbook, and hard-worked chemistry formulas were covered with pencil shavings and exploded pen ink.

Mioru's chest heaved up and down, and he fisted his shirt, wrinkling the cloth in his fingers in an attempt to slow his breath. It only took seconds more for him to collapse against the wall and slide to the ground—alcohol, water, destroyed homework, glass shards and all—and land on his knees, hands catching his weight before he fell flat on his face.

His eyes squeezed shut, and his teeth clenched together, tighter than the force he was using to dig his nails into his palms. He was so sick of this. He was so incredibly sick of how this kept repeating time after time again, and he was sicker still of how he always managed to get blamed for it. Slowly, he reached and put one of his permanent fists over his heart and thumped his chest once, hard.

It hurt.

It hurt now just like it'd hurt last month when he'd seen Kurogane's hand on some blond slut's thigh, the martial artist's red eyes looking at Mioru with every ounce of _"Fuck off"_. It hurt just like it'd hurt the morning after when Kurogane and Mioru were screaming their throats raw at each other, and that time it'd been Kurogane who called it off, running away to beat his anger out on a karate dummy.

It hurt now just like it'd hurt last week when Kurogane had punched him smack in the stomach and accused Mioru of cheating on him when it was just another rumor started after Mioru was spotted through town with Yuuto Kigai. It hurt now just like it'd hurt then when Kurogane had emanated such anger that Mioru had to sprint away before the tears came and thus before Kurogane further called him a pussy.

It hurt now just like it'd hurt last night when Kurogane was yet again trying to get back at Mioru for another cheat and Kurogane had no one to blame but Mioru. It hurt Mioru in so many different ways because every time it hurt like this, Mioru always wondered if Kurogane kept going on like this because Mioru wasn't good enough, or because Kurogane wanted a girl, or because Mioru wasn't elite enough, or because Mioru couldn't captain his team right—or _something_.

Every time Mioru cheated, it was only because Kurogane had done so first. And yet, Kurogane could somehow make it seem as though Kurogane himself was only allowed to do whatever the fuck he wanted and fuck whatever the hell he felt like. The martial artist made it seem as though Mioru was a gianormous man-whore who didn't know front from back and thus couldn't even be trusted or even considered to know right from wrong.

He didn't understand why Kurogane was such an asshole.

Or perhaps, he didn't understand how he could love such an asshole.

Mioru was pretty sure that such atrocious asshole-ness couldn't be rationalized just because no matter how many times Kurogane screamed at him, the martial artist would always turn up scowling at the soccer player's doorstep later on that night or that week, and spit out an apology or at least wait for Mioru to give his.

It couldn't possibly be reasoned with the fact that no matter how much Kurogane might love having a variety of peers in his bed, the martial artist only ever stayed through morning when it was Mioru. Nor could the asshole-ness possibly be leveled with the fact that Kurogane never failed to ask a crudely-hidden question absolutely brimming with concern whenever they collapsed onto the pillows, damp with sweat and exhausted from sex. And it certainly shouldn't be made acceptable with the fact that whenever Mioru's family life became too much for him, Kurogane was always waiting with open ears, a bonk on the head, and some warm name-calling.

Although…perhaps it could be made all right because of the fact that whenever Mioru was more or less sending balls straight through the goalie's net from anger of family life or Kurogane, Kurogane would always show up unpadded and willingly take the place of Mioru's stress ball, allowing himself to get bruised in twenty different places by the soccer ball.

Or could it be reasoned with the fact that Kurogane's kisses could flip from fierce to gentle whenever Mioru needed them to? Could it be leveled with the fact that even if Mioru called hours before the sun rose after crying to himself at night because his parents were putting yet another thousand pound weight on him, Kurogane would always pick up, drowsy voice, half-asleep and all? Was it acceptable because no matter how many people Kurogane cheated on Mioru with, there never seemed to be a single one who interested him for more than the few hours of sex they were worth?

Was it all of those reasons?

Or was it one other one?

Was it—

Was it the fact that no matter how many times Kurogane broke Mioru's heart, Mioru would welcome every blow?

Because the danger in falling in love with a heartbreaker—

The danger was that, soon, you no longer minded that he was breaking your heart.

* * *

_A/N: FF is being stupid, so I had to copy and paste this -_-. In any case, as you all might or might not know, Heartbreaker is a song by G-Dragon of Big Bang, and GD is a special breed of Asian. If you don't believe me, you should check out the music video for this song, because then you will agree that he is as good as taking a hot anime bishounen and making him real (along with making him dance and sing very well). Plus, GD's super pretty, so you should just watch for that. _

_Also, there are tons of songs that are about being stomped on by the person you like, or feeling like shit just because, but this song is so Mioru because it's a song about getting heartbroken _that makes you want to hit things_. How much more Kurogane/Mioru could we get?_


	35. Reset: M and K

Reset

* * *

**PLAY**

* * *

_Kurogane's facial expression could probably have killed sugar, spice, and everything nice, and maybe even a few kindergartners with the force of the glare directed at the camera. Mioru rolled his eyes and stuck the lens closer to the martial artist's irate expression anyhow. "C'mon," he whined. "Just suck it up. It's really not like I'm asking you to make some fucking live obituary for the county mayor's anniversary or anything. You just have to ignore it and keep doing your thing."_

_The freshman's eyebrows went into full thundercloud mode. "What _thing_?"_

"_Your thing. Y'know. Kicking the air's ass."_

_Kurogane always looked eternally pissed at the world, but right now, he looked like he was about to take that camera and shove it into Mioru by highly unnatural and illegal means. Mioru just grinned. "I'm fucking kidding. Just do your martial arty crap and look hot like you always do."_

"_I will as soon as you turn that fucking camera off. It's kind of stalkerish."_

_Mioru lowered the camera in order to raise his eyebrows._

_Kurogane's thundercloud of eyebrows boomed a few more lightning bolts. "It's _really_ stalkerish. How do I know you're not going to post this on the internet so creepy stalker middle school girls can watch me be hot?"_

_The soccer player smirked. "I won't—I swear. This is just for me."_

_The freshman snorted. "Is that supposed to make me feel less violated? You're probably going to play this on the flat screen taped across your bedroom and jack off all night."_

_Mioru rolled his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself." He grinned, zooming in and out playfully, just to annoy the freshman. "'Sides, why jack off to a video when I can get the real thing whenever I want?"_

_Ironically, Kurogane yanked the camera out of Mioru's hands and pulled their bodies close at the same time he said, "Who said you can get me whenever you want?"_

_The sophomore tilted his head and looked into clear, crimson eyes. And grinned. "I just did."_

* * *

**PAUSE**

* * *

Mioru gripped the small camera in his hands, his knees level with his chest and the pain in his chest unleveled. He couldn't bear to press play and watch the rest of the video, but as he saw, through the camera's lens, a younger him and a younger Kurogane bodies touching and banter playful, frozen in a perfect still frame, he wanted to press play just to watch the rest of the sequence.

But he couldn't. It hurt too much.

It was amazing what technology could do—capture moments and feelings and scenes that would never in a million years happen again, capture people together who could never be together again. With just one small button, Mioru could watch Kurogane loving him again, could watch being together, could watch a time when Kurogane didn't hate him.

Mioru knew that things like this couldn't go on forever. He couldn't keep holing himself in his dorm and watch old videos of himself and Kurogane—videos that he should've long since deleted from his camera, videos that Kurogane himself probably didn't even remember being in. After all, these days Kurogane had eyes for no one else by one person—a violinist who'd just graduated, and left Kurogane quiet in the halls, looking out windows and acting in a way that Mioru wished was for he himself and not Fai.

The most they could ever be now was friends, and even that much was highly doubtful to Mioru. He doubted they could ever be anything close to the way they were, before all of this at all started. And yet, his entire being kept hoping and wishing every day that they'd go back to the beginning, that time would somehow turn its hands backward and they could start over with Fai not even yet in the picture—without any of this. Just him and Kurogane. Together.

* * *

**PLAY**

* * *

"_What exactly is that supposed to be?" Mioru raised an eyebrow, and bounced his soccer ball with his knee caps a few times. The contact of flesh against rubber resounded in the dry autumn air. _

_Kurogane adjusted the camera's screen a bit and shrugged with a slight grin. "Revenge. After you more or less kept your stupid camera on while we were fucking, thus creating a porn video that I later had to drug you in order to delete, I decided that I might as well get some blackmail material."_

"_I'm as clean as the Virgin Mary," Mioru said mockingly. "How on earth are you going to get any dirt on me?"_

_The martial artist snorted so violently that he felt some saliva group together in his throat. Mioru smirked, and folded his arms, leaning against the goal post. Kurogane scowled and adjusted the zoom, zooming in and out on Mioru's eyes—fucking amazing eyes. "What are you doing _now_?" Mioru raised an eyebrow. "Do you even know how to work that fucking thing?"_

"_Shut your shithole. 'M not retarded, jackass." Kurogane lowered the camera to glare at Mioru. "You just have nice eyes—what's your damage?"_

_Mioru blinked. "I have nice eyes?"_

_The surprise in the soccer player's tone pulled Kurogane's mouth into a grin for some reason. "Hell yeah—fucking amazing." He rested the camera on the goal post._

_The soccer ball dropped to the ground as Mioru closed the distance between him and Kurogane. He wrapped his arms around Kurogane's neck, and the martial artist didn't move, waiting and watching to see what Mioru would do. The sophomore's face hovered just below Kurogane's jaw, his breath tingling against Kurogane's skin. The freshman's hand brushed up and submersed itself into Mioru's hair, slightly damp from the sweat caused by an early October sun—he tugged the soccer player's head back. _

"_What?" Mioru barely whispered, voice husky. Kurogane didn't need his ears to hear what Mioru said—he felt Mioru's mouth shape the words against his own skin. _

_Kurogane moved his hand from Mioru's hair to the sophomore's cheek, stroking smooth sun-touched skin. Kurogane had always had skin that'd made him look as if he'd played a spring or summer sport, but truth be told it was inherited from his father. But he'd seen Mioru's parents, and he knew that _Mioru's_ skin _was_ the fucking perfect shade of bronze that it was because he spent all hours he could beneath the sun. When he thought about it, the sun probably spent more time touching Mioru than Kurogane did._

_Which was pretty damn close to impossible._

"_Your hair got long," Kurogane said. "You look like a girl."_

_Mioru's face shifted from ready-to-have-sex-on-the-soccer-field to ready-to-kill-Kurogane-dead. He shoved away out of Kurogane's grip. "No I don't." But Mioru was grinning, and all Kurogane had to do was recover the distance Mioru had put between them, taking Mioru by the wrists and commencing to pull him close again. Mioru's grin just broadened and he drew farther back, leading Kurogane farther and farther away from the forgotten camera and soccer ball and towards the center of the wide field. _

_Kurogane stayed at the boundary line, but Mioru just kept jogging towards the center, spinning around and running backwards, arms thrust wide into the air, head tilted towards the sky. "You look like a girl," Kurogane shouted, hands in his pockets, clothes whipped by the brisk autumn breeze. "When you do that I can't tell if you have tits or not, and you're so fucking skinny."_

"_Girl or guy, I'm still hot," Mioru shouted back, his grin big enough for Kurogane to catch even from that distance. "And you fucking know it."_

_Kurogane snorted. "Get your hot ass over here so I can fuck it, then."_

"_If you want to fuck me, you get over here," Mioru called. "If we do it over there, my head's going to hit the goalpost again."_

"_Yeah, then you'll be in negative IQ points."_

_Mioru pointed his middle finger in the air. _

"_Yeah," Kurogane shouted. "Love you fucking too, Aoi."_

_Mioru's laugh ran through the field._

* * *

**PAUSE**

* * *

Kurogane threw the camera across the room. How badly he fucking wished that he'd left the camera on the ground, instead of on the goal post where it'd captured everything perfectly. Perfect view, perfect color, perfect clarity, perfect sound. Perfect view of Mioru's bright eyes, fierce and lively; perfect capturing the color of Mioru's uniquely shaded eyes, gold and brown all at once; the perfect clarity of Mioru's slender frame running out into the field, surrounded by the soccer field, by the one thing he'd always said he'd love more than Kurogane; the perfectly captured sound of Mioru's laugh, a sound that wasn't all too common these days.

All the photos and videos of Mioru were on this camera—Kurogane had never been photographer, so why would he refresh the data on his camera? The only reason he'd ever gotten it in the first place was so he could carry Mioru in his hands wherever he went. But now…

Now he didn't need to. He wasn't supposed to. Now he had someone else to carry in his hands—in his heart. And because this person was always on TV, was always beside Kurogane, there was no reason to freeze him in time on a camera. And Kurogane shouldn't have frozen Mioru in time either. Because now, Kurogane couldn't bring himself to delete everything. Not even as he sat here, on the bed that just last night he and Fai had shared—that they'd slept together on in more ways than one.

He was looking through this camera because Fai had come to visit him in his dorm during one of Fai's very rare breaks from the traveling orchestra, and right now Fai was already on his way to Luxembourg, but not before the violinist had curiously looked through Kurogane's old things and this thin, silver camera had resurfaced.

Kurogane had at first simply set out to delete the data and then either sell the camera or just keep it for future possible use, but he hadn't known that it was _this_ camera. But even if someone had told him beforehand that these were the videos and pictures on this camera, he still would've thought that deleting them would've been nothing more than a button push. That, however, was before he'd gone through the pictures, and watched the videos.

Fucking honestly, he didn't know why his thumb hovered motionless and almost shaking over the OK button while the ever familiar pop up square asking if he wanted to delete or not appeared on the screen. He was with Fai, wasn't he—goddamn it? He loved Fai. Fai was everything, and Kurogane didn't want to go back to Mioru. Sure, Mioru was his friend and all—sort of—but he was supposed to be over the soccer player. He was supposed to able to forget. He wasn't supposed to love Mioru the way he loved Fai. Not anymore.

And fucking honestly, he didn't. It was the truth. Kurogane really didn't love Mioru the way he loved Fai, and maybe, he never had.

Maybe he'd just loved Mioru the way he loved Mioru.

* * *

**PLAY**

* * *

_Mioru stared at the ceiling, holding the camera at arm's length. He turned his head on the pillow and looked at Kurogane. "You awake?" He nudged the martial artist's bare shoulder with his own. The freshman's eyes glowed like rubies even in the morning sunlight. _

"_Yeah," Kurogane replied, his voice still somewhat laced in sleep. "Why?"_

"_I took a picture of you while you were sleeping." The soccer player, rather than sounding expectedly mocking and teasing, instead sounded curiously apologetic. Mioru rolled onto his side, head propped up on one hand and then asked, "Do I have to delete it?"_

_Kurogane was silent. Then, "Can I see it?"_

_Mioru turned on the camera, pressed a few buttons, and then handed the device to Kurogane. The martial artist wordlessly and expressionlessly eyed the screen for a few moments and then handed it back to the soccer player. "Why'd you have to?"_

"_I dunno," Mioru shrugged, taking the camera back and setting it in between their pillows. "I thought you might be mad or something. Usually you blow up."_

_Kurogane's mouth curved into a small smirk. "'M not bad. 'S a good picture—I look fuckable." _

_Mioru grinned in response. "You are." He slid his body right against Kurogane's, skin-on-skin, and rested his cheek on Kurogane's. "Take a picture of me next time."_

_Kurogane's voice sounded doubtful. "While you're sleeping? Dude, you don't look fuckable, you just look rape-able."_

_The soccer player drew away and punched the freshman in the arm. "First I look like a girl—so I got my hair cut. And now I'm sleeping rapist bait? What the fuck's all this shit supposed to mean? That I'm _pretty_?"_

"_You bitch enough to be PMS-ing all your life," Kurogane grinned. "So just grow tits and lose the dick and you'll be set. We can get married, then."_

"_Fuck off," Mioru sighed. He paused. And then matching the freshman's grin, he took one of Kurogane's hands and led it under the covers, down the sophomore's stomach, down—_

_Kurogane curled his fingers instinctively, making Mioru smile breathlessly, saying, "We _both _know that you'd rather I have this then tits."_

"_Shame. You'd make a hot girl—like, a C? Or a D."_

_Mioru laughed._

_But Kurogane rolled over the sophomore and began pumping. The smile faded clean and fast from Mioru's face, as his breathing began to escalate and his fingers dug into Kurogane's shoulders. "Still," the martial artist leaned in closer and said huskily into Mioru's ear, "This ain't too bad either."_

* * *

**PAUSE**

* * *

Mioru could feel his eyes stinging now, and he thought that his hands might start bruising from holding on to the camera too tightly. Even when the moments weren't captured on video, each and every photo that was taken brought in with it a wave of memories, some beautiful and some not so much, but all painful. He wanted to erase everything so that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to restart his life—to reset his heart. He didn't want to forget, of course not. But he didn't want to keep holding on like this—half-hurting and hanging on, and half-trying to forget and _move_ on. Living a half life was more painful that no life at all, and the same exact went for this.

He'd rather erase all of Kurogane then only have him in bits and pieces that weren't even really Kurogane—just shadows and images of him, frozen in time as that upstart, somewhat annoying, plenty irritating, beautiful, fucking brilliant, fucking hot, and forever ill-tempered freshman boy who, even though he never had admitted it, looked up to Mioru as freshman only did.

Kurogane had Fai now. Mioru had no one. And just because Mioru had no one didn't give him any excuse to hold on to Kurogane this way.

* * *

**PLAY**

* * *

_"I thought we stopped this game last week when you almost mistook the camera for your dick and dude if that thing had went up me, we would've been in some serious shit," Mioru said emphatically as Kurogane balanced the camera on his palm. _

_The martial artist looked irritated. "It was dark, I was drunk, and considering how fucking horny I was, this camera was pretty fucking hard enough to be my dick."_

_"I don't know about you, but my dick isn't shaped like a rectangle."_

_"I _said_ I was drunk."_

_Mioru laughed. "Yeah. And I heard you. I also heard you last night when you were mumbling in your sleep for, like, the twelfth time this week. Was I too awesome at sex or did you just drink some cheap beer again? That crap always gives me nightmares."_

_Kurogane's voice was quiet. "Did you hear what I was mumbling?"_

_"Here and there," Mioru shrugged one shoulder, looking out the window as his ears reddened at the tips. _

_The martial artist scowled. "Oi, Aoi, if you fucking dare look embarrassed while I'm the one who's been caught fucking trying to practice saying it to you in my fucking sleep, then I'm going to whup your ass so sore that I can't fuck you for a month."_

_Mioru looked sheepishly indignant. "Then say it if you're so fucking embarrassed. 'S not like we're virgins or anything."_

_Kurogane slammed the camera onto the closest shelf and grabbed Mioru by the front of his shirt—pulling him near so that their scowls were only centimeters apart. "Fine. So. Fucking Mioru Aoi."_

_"Yeah?" Mioru spat back defiantly._

_"I fucking love you, hear me?"_

_Mioru punched him, and Kurogane's back collided against the wall. He had absolutely no time to slide down or right himself because not even a second later, Mioru had grabbed the martial artist's shirt and said just as irritably, "I love you, too, fucking jackass." Mioru's breath ghosted against Kurogane's jaw. "So don't ever fucking leave me, got it, asshole?"_

_And then the sophomore kissed him. _

_Kurogane pulled away and said, admittedly, somewhat breathless, "Damn if I ever, Aoi."_

* * *

**PAUSE**

* * *

Kurogane stood up from the bed and bent down to retrieve the thrown camera.

Mioru buried his face in his knees, the cold metal camera in his lap, sandwiched between his thighs and his stomach feeling like the weight of the world.

Kurogane turned the device on and waited for it to load.

Mioru told himself that he wasn't ever going to cry over anyone like this again, and gently scooped up the camera in his hands, shaking it a bit so the screen would light up again.

Kurogane thought of lively laughter in golden brown eyes and sunlight glowing on naked, bronze skin and how he should stop being selfish and fucking stupid and let someone who'd bring that lively laughter back and who'd kiss glowing, naked, bronze skin like the sunlight always did.

Mioru mouthed, "Let go", over and over to himself while he conjured up the menu and scrolled down to "ERASE ALL".

Kurogane's eyes took in the screen and watched as the pop up box came up again and he moved the highlight to the "YES" square.

They closed their eyes, thumbs over a same, single button.

* * *

**RESET**

* * *

_A/N: SEE! I told you that I'd update again soon. Although I'd said Compelled and instead it's this, it's still an update. And personally, I'm satisfied. (I hope you are too...?) So, like the last one, this bout was inspired by a song, too, and this time it's Reset by Super Junior, so if you listen to that while reading this (or before or after), it'd be much better than just reading this out of nowhere, although feel free to do that, too. Also, if any of you are sick of me making KuroFai seem like a bad thing (God forbid), I really am sorry. I still love KuroFai too much than is healthy, but I love KuroMioru in its own way, too. _

_(To be honest, I actually just really, really love Mioru, and Senryuu, but we'll cross that bridge when it's Unveiled. Ha ha--get it?)_

_0_0_


	36. King T and Y II's Story I

King T and Y II's Story I

Touya ran a hand through his already completely worn out hair, and scrunched up his eyebrows. He sprawled his arms and head over the book, and tilted his gaze to the left, as though that would perhaps change the fact that there was no reason why anyone so morbid would want to know when Train A and Train B were going to crash, rather, they should be finding a way to stop them. Moreover, why involve Touya in their perverse train wreck-causing antics?

"Have you got it yet?"

Touya let his eyes meander up to the face of his speaker—let his eyes wander around in the rich, golden brown pools that were Yukito Tsukishiro's eyes. "I don't understand why you have to tutor me," Touya said discontentedly. "I mean, you don't even get the situation that I can't go on being on varsity as a freshman if I don't get a B in the next quarter. You aren't even in my _class_. Shouldn't they get someone who's in Basic Algebra?"

Yukito smiled. "But I'm in Algebra 2. Which is even better—I know the concepts better than the best student in Basic Algebra."

Touya squinted. "That's just…not cool. Not nice and not cool at all. Why do you have to be such a nerd?"

The dancer just laughed, one hand going up to adjust his glasses. After a toss of his bangs—quick and brisk, with all the precision and control of a dancer—Yukito scooted his chair in closer to Touya's desk, and leaned over the books, face inches away from Touya's. "It's nice to be smart, don't you think? And maybe if you studied, you wouldn't be spending your Friday afternoon stuck at school with a nerd."

The athlete regarded Yukito's expression. But as usual, it was nothing but quietly fond looking right back at Touya. "At least it's you," Touya shrugged. "If it were anyone else saying stuff like that, you know that I'd get detention again for messing their face up."

"I don't really know whether to laugh or tell you that you're sort of an immature thug."

"Just go on with the fucking train wreck."

Yukito smiled. "Do you remember the table thing I taught you last week?"

Touya shifted in his seat, eyes boring holes into the textbook page. "Um…yeah."

Yukito softly pushed the notebook towards the athlete. "All right. Then write it down, fill it in, and solve the problem. If you have any mistakes in your work, or the answer comes out wrong, we'll go back."

Touya turned his eyes back down, and stared at the textbook page. He shifted his eyes to his blank notebook—blank, save for the scribbles still faintly etched even after violent erasing. In all honesty, he _had_ tried to commit the table to memory when Yukito had taught it to him last week, but even after three different explanations, it still wouldn't stick in Touya's mind. There _were_ remnants, he could feel, floating around that had something to do with distances and times and dividing one with the other, and some other variable whose letter he couldn't manage to pull up….perhaps…S…? And it would stand for…erm…Save the Train…?

At the least, to possibly lessen the depth of his grave, Touya remembered that if it was a table of some sort, he could start drawing lines and it would look like he had learned _something_, meaning Yukito's teaching hadn't gone to complete waste.

The problem was that he didn't know how _many_ lines to draw because he didn't know what was supposed to go _in_ the table.

Touya only hovered his pencil above the notebook for less than a minute (pretending to ponder knowingly) before Yukito's thin fingers gently wrapped around Touya's wrist. He heard his friend sigh. "You don't remember, do you?"

"No, I do," Touya said defensively, somehow unable to take his arm out of Yukito's grip—which should've been more than easy, seeing as Yukito's holds were always so soft.

Yukito looked up at him from beneath his lashes. "Touya. Seriously. You don't remember at all, do you?"

The athlete stared back for another moment, before looking away. "No. I don't." Then, "But I tried to. Fucking honestly, I did."

The dancer didn't break the gaze, seemingly scanning Touya's eyes. It only took another beat for Yukito to break away and sigh again. "I know you did. It's okay. Maybe I should teach it to you another way." And then Yukito looked down at the textbook intently. "Okay."

Touya scooted in expectantly.

Yukito took the pencil carefully from Touya's grip and drew three lines, spaced out evenly into columns of three on the notebook. He wrote an 'R' over the first one, a 'T' over the second, and a 'D' over the third. The dancer glanced at Touya, and said, "Come closer. Maybe if you really remember hearing me, you won't forget again."

Touya scooted in even further, although he felt as though if there was any _more_ distance lost between them, Yukito would practically be falling into his lap. Yukito used the pencil to point to the 'T'. "What does this stand for?"

"Time. Right?"

"Right. Good. And, the 'R'?"

Touya stared. Since when had there ever been an 'R'? And wasn't the 'D' supposed to go first, and then the 'T', and then the 'S'? Why the hell was an 'R' there? He swore to God it'd been an 'S'. Or a 'V'. "Um…I think that's wrong."

Yukito blinked. Looked back at the textbook. Turned a few pages. Turned a few pages back. Looked at his writing. Looked up at Touya oddly. "No. It's not." Then he neared Touya—as in neared, really, really neared, Touya. As in, the athlete could feel the dancer's breath ghost over his _tongue._ "The 'R' stands for 'rate'. Remember the formula: 'Rate' times 'time' equals 'distance'. Say it."

Touya couldn't, at the moment, even breathe. Let alone repeat some complicated math bullshit.

He couldn't breathe because Yukito was too close.

Much too close.

"C'mon," Yukito urged, "You _have_ to remember this. Say it. 'Rate' times 'time' equals 'distance'. Use something around you right now to remember—so whenever you need to remember, just associate it with that. Something, _anything_, you have to learn this right."

Around him? All around him Touya could see pools of melting golden honey—brown and warm. Touya could taste softly fading traces of some kind of juice Yukito must've drunk. He could smell the smell of wooden varnish and mirrors from the dance studio Yukito attended. And he could feel the dancer's body heat encompassing his entire body.

_'Rate' times 'time' equals 'distance'_

"'Rate' times 'time' equals 'distance'."

Yukito nodded his head once. "Don't ever forget, okay?"

Touya's mouth was open—he could feel it open—but for somehow, he couldn't hear any words coming out. And from the ticking seconds that passed and the growing expression on Yukito's face (a face that was just inches away from Touya's, warm breath and warm scent) it seemed that Yukito couldn't hear any words coming out either. "Touya?"

"Yeah," the athlete finally rasped. He coughed. "I won't. Yeah, I won't forget. I swear this time."

Yukito looked relieved, smiling. "Good. So, now that I already made the table, you can just fill it in. I'll give the rest to you, since you're so tired you've kind of started to space out." He softly replaced the pencil into Touya's hand, cool fingers brushing against the athlete's palm. "Were the upperclassmen tough at practice again?"

Touya shook off the feeling of having Yukito's skin against his. "Yeah," he rolled his eyes. "They're all mad about the grades thing. And that I have to be an hour late to practice some days because of the tutoring."

"I can move it an hour early, if you'd like," Yukito said quietly.

Touya frowned. "But…but don't you already have to come here straight from _your _practice? If it's any earlier, you'd miss things."

Yukito shrugged, and gave a tiny smile. "I'd make the missed things up."

That sentence just worried Touya further. "When? Aren't you like crazy booked already?"

Yukito was silent.

Confirmed. Totally confirmed. And Touya wanted to totally flip out. "Don't tell me that you're going to start cutting down on sleep hours," Touya said, eyes narrowing. "You don't even have time to eat anymore these days. And you fall asleep straight away whenever I give you a ride home. Sometimes I have to get my chauffeur to carry you in."

"Your upperclassmen are giving you trouble," Yukito continued in that same quiet tone, eyes to Touya's face. The dancer shook his head slightly, expression imploring in a way that Touya hated because it was the precise way that Touya could never bring himself to refuse. "If I can make them not, then it's only fair to you that I do what I can, right?"

Touya felt his temper gurgling. "Um, hell no?" Touya narrowed his eyes. "Like, really, really, _really_ no? Who the fuck cares what's fair to me? It's not damn fucking fair to you! I'm a lazy bum who can't even get off his ass to study for an hour, and your dancing time that you should be sleeping, and preparing stuff for me when you should be eating and studying for yourself when you should be actually _liking_ life."

Yukito's eyes were taken aback. And it took Touya one glance at those eyes in order to realize what he'd said and how it'd come out. But it only took another split second, before Touya could even begin to think of a way to repair the potential damage, for Yukito's hand to appear over the athlete's—soft and gentle.

Touya dared to let his breath out. He took another risk and spoke first. "Never mind," he mumbled, half incoherent to even his own ears. He stared determinedly down at the table and felt Yukito's gaze soft and concerned on him. "Just go on with the thing."

But the athlete's head snapped up before Yukito could go on—the library door had opened, and after the two boys waited, Seishiro Sakurazuka appeared in amidst the shelves, sporting a smile that made Touya's knuckles itch and a bag filled with sheets of music and CDs. He walked right past where Touya sat and leaned in between the athlete and the dancer, face inches away from Yukito's surprised eyes. Without warning, but with disgusted expectation from Touya, Seishiro promptly kissed Yukito's lips and then drew back, smiling broader and making Touya's knuckles itch more.

"What?" Touya asked flatly, more determined than ever not to make eye-contact any more today with Yukito.

The Maestro merely looked vaguely amused. "Is that any way to be talking to your upperclassman?"

"What?" Touya repeated obstinately. "I'm being tutored."

"I can see that," Seishiro replied politely. "I just have some choreography notes to give to Yukito, and to return to him the altered versions of his music for his next showcase."

Internally, Touya knew that Yukito knew as well as he himself did that through Seishiro's three-hour-to-three-day-trials-which-he-called-relationships during middle school, the conductor had found himself favorites, and one of those favorites, possibly in the top five, was Yukito. Worse still for Touya, this meant that the bastard came calling whenever he could shove himself making-out with Yukito into Touya's nose.

Touya had never had a problem with Yukito liking boys ever since eighth grade, or more accurately, lots of boys liking Yukito a bit more than they should (be allowed to). But that didn't mean Touya couldn't have problems with certain boys like Seishiro, who, with the conductor's reputation, was just asking to have his ass reamed into sashimi.

As any good underclassman should, Yukito had stood up and bowed before holding out his hands to receive his choreography and music from Seishiro. The conductor was only slightly above average height for a sophomore, and shorter than Touya by a good three or so inches, but slightly above average was still taller than Yukito, and for a reason Touya couldn't pinpoint with any amount of accuracy, his insides contorted irritably when he saw the way Seishiro towered over Yukito and made a perfect picture that was only supposed to be made when tall guys stood next to pretty girls.

Two guys, no matter how pretty themselves, weren't supposed to look like a photo-shopped portrait. Especially one that included Seishiro's face, which shouldn't even be legal without a paper bag over it anyhow. "So how goes the tutoring?" Seishiro asked, one hand on the back of Touya's chair. Yukito was still standing; the dancer looked down at Touya wonderingly.

"Great," Touya ground out. "So great that I'd love for it to start up again. Now."

The bastard conductor just smiled and patted the athlete's forearm patronizingly. "You're such an adorable freshman, you know? Don't get your jockstrap in a twist. I'm only here to talk to Yukito for a bit. You aren't his only friend."

The dancer looked like he was about to gently protest for the sake of keeping Touya's sanity within this plane of existence, but Seishiro had already put his hand lightly atop the crown of Yukito's head and went on with a playful, "How're you?"

Yukito smiled back, a tiny sigh coming through his lips. "Good. How's Subaru?"

Seishiro just rolled his eyes, teeth coming into his grin and eyes closing up cheerily. "I already told you how I like a broad spectrum to choose from, didn't I? You're my favorite this week. Maybe even this entire semester. I look after my freshmen like a good upperclassman should."

"I'm sure you do," Touya muttered, trying to mentally dispel reality and somehow make the bastard disappear. He forced himself to keep his eyes on Yukito's shoelace.

"I think he really likes you, Seishiro," Yukito said quietly in a fondly smiling tone that Touya knew only too well, and knew even better the large, melting pools that the dancer's eyes became whenever this voice came out.

"Well, _I_ really like _you_," Seishiro responded casually. "And I'd like you even more if you came to my house this weekend. You know I haven't seen you since before mid-terms, and since before you had to do this tutoring thing."

Touya's patience level was staring to drop toward negative numbers. Also, his high school-developed gut instinct was telling him that he really didn't want to hear about the conductor making plans to _do_ his best childhood friend. So abruptly, he stood up and with Seishiro and Yukito's eyes on him, he said, "I need to go to the bathroom," in a lame voice that he knew would get him shit from the Maestro later on, but at the moment, he wanted to be anywhere but near Seishiro.

As he went out of the library and toward the bathrooms and the water fountain at the end of the hall, he felt something that, if he remembered the feeling correctly, was close to panic but not as urgent and not as suffocating. It tugged at something in his chest, and made his fingers curl into fists.

Touya really didn't have any problem, he'd never had, with Yukito being gay. Or bi. Or whatever they were calling it these days. Definitely, he would admit to being more than disconcerted when he first found out, just weeks after they touched lips during a simple game of basketball. He would even admit to being somewhat of a jerk by avoiding Yukito for a few days afterward, trying to figure out by himself if Yukito was gay for _Touya_ as opposed to just gay. And even then, after another few days, he and the dancer made it all right again. He'd never had a problem with Yukito liking boys because Yukito assured him, always reassuring whenever Touya needed reassurance, that they'd remain friends till the end—no matter what.

But Touya would be lying if he said that he didn't have a problem with the _way_ Yukito seemed to be gay. Or rather, the way that other boys wanted Yukito to be gay. Or, maybe that wasn't even the right way to put it. It wasn't about Yukito being gay that bothered Touya—this could happen even if Yukito was a girl. Touya's problem resided in the fact that it wasn't just Seishiro who sometimes sauntered past Yukito's studio, hoping to catch the dancer's shirt riding up because of a body wave or a popping sequence; hoping to see sweat bead fine strands of dusty blond hair because of challenging choreography; hoping to see sweatpants fall low on slender hips because of chaotic footwork.

And it definitely was much more than just Seishiro always coming to call on Touya and Yukito's library sessions, asking with a bright smile if Yukito was busy this weekend or tonight and if he wasn't could he please come to so-and-so's house because so-and-so missed Yukito so much for the entire week, and Yukito _did _know that he looked hot in last week's showcase, right?

Touya wouldn't have a problem with any of this if it were the _same_ boy who kept calling on Yukito and taking him home and driving him to school—he wouldn't even care if they were a college senior and nearly eight years older than Yukito (as many were). He wouldn't even give a shit if it were _Seishiro_, as long as it was _only_ Seishiro.

But it wasn't. Seishiro was close to Yukito, and although Touya would never admit it, that made the athlete feel somewhat better, compared to how he felt when he saw random Maikeru or Fuki alumni traipsing into the library, sometimes two or three at a time to set separate (and sometimes simultaneous) dates with Yukito.

Though of course, all of this wouldn't bother Touya _at all_ (the multiple boys coming in whenever they pleased without any consideration of how maybe Touya's fist was harder than theirs) if the dates really were _dates_.

It wasn't like Touya hadn't had sex before. He had. Once last year during the graduation after-party, because he and the girl both thought that that as friends they might as well get it done at least once before they went to high school. (Most likely, they had probably also been somewhere from slightly-to-immensely drunk.) But Touya definitely didn't have sex with multiple girls every other day (at the least), and none of his teammates (even the upperclassmen) or friends did either. (Although there'd been rumors of a blond eighth-grader who was slowly turning into the national nympho, but that wasn't Touya's damage.)

Moreover, Touya just didn't understand why Yukito would do things like this. Any other teenage socialite would be perfectly understandable, but Yukito was hardly the stereotypical sleeping-around-whilst-doing-drugs-whilst-having-an-eternal-hangover-whilst-skimping-on-the-schoolwork-and-bribing-the-teachers-to-exempt-him socialite teenager. And yet, the dancer had somehow become a favorite of the Maestro, who _was_ the stereotypical socialite teenager only upped a few crazy levels.

Touya didn't get why Yukito couldn't just sleep with one guy consistently and have a normal relationship and date some guy normally and not put himself at risk to contract all the STDs in the known medical world. STDs weren't a problem for the Maestro, who was probably somehow immune to them because he was the _Maestro_.

Touya, personally, wouldn't be surprised. Not very much, at least. It seemed like the kind of thing that Seishiro would bring about.

The athlete hung around the boys' bathroom for a while, washing his hands a few dozen times since he didn't need to actually go, and if he hung around doing nothing, the other boys would think he was trying to sneak a peek during the leak. After five minutes of washing his hands had passed, Ashura Ou traipsed into the bathroom, dark hair barely touching his shoulders and the air around him smelling like pastels and paints.

Okay.

Ashura Ou was one of those few rare breeds of boy that Touya would actually admit to at first, from the back, from a _considerable distance_, mistaking for a girl—a pretty girl, and while looking at the pretty girl, he'd also admit to debating whether he should hit on her or not. But then again, Touya thought that after Ashura turned around (and after the athlete actually let back some of the blood out of his cock so it could flow into his brain, so he could realize that a girl wouldn't be anywhere near Fuki or Maikeru's grounds) the artist looked considerably more like a guy than the artist had during their younger days.

Touya remembered that before puberty had really settled in and started working its magic, Ashura didn't look anything like a dude. _At all_. If someone had told you that Ashura was a boy, you would've slapped them for trying to insult such a pretty little girl, or you would've just laughed along with the joke. At least nowadays, Ashura's lack of breasts actually confirmed _something_.

Of course, if Touya was ever in any doubt about someone's gender, the easiest thing to do would be to ask Seishiro. The Maestro unquestionably would've seen the proof with his own eyes.

Ashura's eyes caught with Touya's as the artist leaned slightly over the sink to scrub at his paint-streaked hands. The artist smiled with those doe eyes that only girls should have. "Hello."

"Hi," Touya mumbled, furiously dispensing another mountain of soap into his hands. "Erm…why are you at Maikeru?"

The artist kept his long lashes pointing down at his hands. "Seishiro brought me with him. He says he wants to take me somewhere tonight, so I should just do my art work here while I'm waiting for him to finish."

The soccer player's mouth suddenly felt dry. "Finish what?"

Ashura took his hands out from underneath the automatic sink—the water switched off. Looking up from thick, charcoal dark lashes, Ashura tipped his head to one side, black hair swinging against a pale, thin cheek. He smiled yet again. "The Maestro has business with Yukito Tsukishiro."

Touya never understood why, but Seishiro's little cult of too pretty and too perfect boys and girls always crept him out more than he reasoned they ever should. Maybe also the fact that it was mainly boys and not so much girls that crept him out more, even if he knew that Seishiro was on the gayer side of bi. But still, there was no reason for it to be creepy. Touya used to be in the same class as Ashura, and back then Ashura had never been this odd. Sure he'd been a little odd, but he was an artist and that was how artists rolled.

Or something.

At the very least, Ashura had always seemed chummy with Amaterasu, and anyone who was chummy with someone that hot should account for something. Although, these days Amaterasu was hanging around Seishiro and being all creepy, too. There were even rumors that Seishiro had done it with seventh graders last year, and was now preparing them (as eighth graders) to be his protégées.

Touya was just of the opinion that if the world had any more people like Seishiro, it would end a few millenniums early. Meaning that if this rumor was true, he planned to maybe knock a few of the protégées out with a steel wok before they could spread their creepy gay unicorn sex auras around.

"Yeah, I know," Touya said, taking a few steps back away from Ashura. "Seishiro already gave Yukito his CD and shit. He should be going now, right? After he made plans to fuck him again."

The next words out of the artist's mouth weren't even able to complete themselves because Touya had already began running—

"The Maestro doesn't need to make _plans_—"

* * *

Yukito watched Touya run out of the library hastily; smoke practically spurting from his heels. His hand subconsciously gripped the edge of the table tightly. He glanced up at Seishiro. "He's mad at me again." The Maestro seemed to take those words and roll them around lazily in his mind before taking the steps needed to close all the distance between them—all the way until the button of his uniform pants was millimeters away from Yukito's nose.

"He's pissed, but I don't think it's at you," Seishiro said, smiling. The conductor's hand softly stroked through Yukito's hair, trailing down the nape of his neck and skimming over the back collar of his shirt. The Maestro's other hand touched Yukito's cheek while simultaneously pushing his leg in between the dancer's—all the way in.

Yukito's breath caught and stopped at the contact—at the stimulation.

Seishiro was moving his leg, subtle movements but teasing ones—up and down, side to side, pressing and not pressing. The dancer's breath was coming out in little puffs now, and his hands gripped the conductor's waistband, thumbs hooked in the empty belt loops. Seishiro's hands were still gripping Yukito by the hair, trickling against his throat, fisting the collar of the dancer's shirt, loosening the dancer's tie, and slowly pushing his face closer and closer to the unzipped zipper of Seishiro's pants.

Even though Yukito's fingers were already touching the elastic of the Maestro's boxers, he murmured, breathing unstable because of the way one of Seishiro's hands had left the dancer's hair and face, and was now taking the place of the conductor's leg, "Not today…I don't…Seishiro."

Seishiro's hand hadn't even unbuttoned or unbuckled he constraints that Yukito was in, simply continuing to tease unbearably through the rough, linen of the uniform pants. "You do," the Maestro insisted softly, almost hypnotically. "You do." Then, he linked one finger around Yukito's glasses and pulled them off, placing them on the open textbook. "I'm Touya. I'm Touya."

To be honest, Yukito hated this.

He hated how Seishiro had to play around Subaru's back to convince himself that he still was the Maestro and that he had the nerve to do anything that wasn't sane or moral, but apparently, not enough nerve to admit that he might actually like Subaru as more than something to fuck. And he hated how Yukito himself was contributing to some poor eighth grader's broken heart. He hated how he kept doing this not with just Seishiro, and how all it took was taking off his glasses to turn a blurred face into Touya's.

He hated how he was getting off by disrespecting Touya—by degrading his best friend in his mind, by thinking about his best friend in ways that would undoubtedly creep and disgust the athlete were he ever to find out that Yukito wasn't just having sex for the sake of being a slut, but rather because Yukito was too selfish and fucking horny to stop pretending that all these boys were Touya.

As if anyone ever could be.

* * *

When Touya reached the library once again, out of breath and nearly out of sanity, the sight that was thrown at him made him feel like his soul had drifted out of his body and his heart had broken through the soles of his feet.

Seishiro was sitting in the chair the athlete had just occupied minutes before, head thrown back, eyes closed, while one hand was running through Yukito's hair, and the other squirming around somewhere else on Yukito—that somewhere else that was in full open view because Yukito's underwear and pants and belt were completely gone from the dancer's body as he knelt between the Maestro's legs, erection naked and dripping, mouth and tongue wrapped around the conductor's cock.

Touya could tell that Seishiro had heard him come in the minute his footsteps drew close to the tutoring table. And he could tell because the Maestro's eyes had slowly opened, lazily grinning at the athlete with his flushed cheeks and eyes bordering the line of orgasm. And when the conductor finally did climax, his gaze never left Touya, as yellowish-white erupted into Yukito's hair and cheeks, dripping onto his uniform shirt.

At the time, Touya had attributed his next action as a culmination of stressing out about tutoring and being kicked off the team and Yukito's odd behavior in general, but that was before he'd reasoned out the real cause of why he'd grabbed Seishiro by the collar and punched his sorry-ass bastard face hard enough that his fist began to bleed.

At the time, he couldn't figure out why his fist winded back up for another hit, and he probably would've continued pummeling the Maestro's face into an unrecognizable bleeding lump of flesh if it hadn't been for Yukito who grabbed onto the athlete's arm and latched onto it with such security that the only way for Touya to move was to swing Yukito along with him.

"Don't," Yukito whispered, eyes closed tight, and face beaded with sweat and heat.

Seishiro stood up, shook some of the blood off and tipped the hair out of his eyes. His gaze met Touya's once again and as he left the library wordlessly, Touya committed that expression of the conductor's to memory to use for motivation in finding his ass and beating it up when Yukito wasn't around even though he still didn't know why he wanted to so badly.

After the Maestro left, Yukito slowly released Touya and began pulling his glasses and underwear and his pants back on, simply leaving his belt to hang on the back of a chair. Touya stood there dumbly, scrutinizing on how Yukito's face was still flushed and his hair was soaked with sweat, breath coming out raggedly, movements stiff and unnatural. The soccer player watched him bite his lip as he closed textbooks, hurrying to put them in his bag and in the haste, dropping one on the ground.

It wasn't until Touya leaned down to pick the book up for him that he saw Yukito's eyes were wet, and there were droplets trapped against his glasses and dripping down his cheek—yellowish-white was also still splattered here and there. And it wasn't until he noticed how the dancer was trembling that he finally realized.

There really were no bounds to how much of a bastard Seishiro Sakurazuka was.

That asshole had left Yukito hanging.

Touya turned. "I'm going to kick his dick off," he said, legs already starting to walk out of the library.

"No, Touya," Yukito's voice was softly pleading. "Touya, seriously, don't. I'm fine. I'll just pack up."

Although the reason as to why Touya punched Seishiro had only been unclear during that moment, the reason why Yukito's words were they way they were had never been explained and Touya still didn't get it. He didn't get why right now Yukito was talking about packing up as though that had anything to do with the fact that Seishiro deserved to be run over with a steamroller.

Touya whirled around and his eyes narrowed incredulously—disbelievingly. "Are you fucking _serious_? Are you _fucking_ serious? I don't think you understand what he just did to you. That bastard just got off with you sucking his dick, played around with you, and didn't even bother to let you _come_. He left you hard and I _know_ that right now you're hurting like a fucking bitch, which means you _are not _fine and you _will not_ pack up."

Before Yukito could spout any more of his self-sacrificing absurdity, Touya grabbed the dancer by the wrist and pulled him into a chair. Then the athlete took a seat of his own across from Yukito and pulled up close. He grabbed a few sheets of Kleenex from the middle of the table and, gently removing the dancer's glasses, started to wipe away tears and the sperm of Satan (this shit should never be shot into a pussy for no other reason than the fact that anyone with Seishiro's DNA shouldn't be allowed to live).

"I'm sorry," Yukito said suddenly, softly, in a voice that tugged at something inside of Touya. There had often been times when they were younger and Yukito would have to calm Touya, sometimes even comfort him during bouts of angry, furious tears after losing a soccer match or, when they'd been really young, scraping his knee during Little League practice. And every time, Yukito had always seemed stronger than Touya, had always seemed to know more and believe in Touya more.

But now, apologizing for no reason, Yukito looked nothing but exhausted and miserable and hurting and as though he'd just done Touya some great personal wrong. With moments like these, Touya always turned to autopilot, and autopilot right now was making his hand dive into the front of Yukito's underwear, pulling out the wet, burning, cock and only getting two pumps in before yellowish-white spurted out and Yukito fell limp into the athlete's arms, gasping and tears coming down harder than before.

Calmly, and still on autopilot, Touya pulled a few more Kleenex out of the box and wiped his hands, and the rest of Yukito's tears. The dancer's hair still hid his expression as he tremblingly pushed himself out of Touya's hold and leaned back in his chair, chest heaving up and down. This time, Yukito's voice shook more and it was even softer than before as it whispered an almost shocked, "I'm sorry."

But there was only so long and so much Touya's poor brain could handle while on autopilot—the athlete wasn't an animal who could run its entire life through blissful instinct. Oftentimes Touya wished he was because it wasn't like his brain was good for much else _without_ autopilot. In fact, most times when he acted on his thoughts, it turned out far worse than when he acted on pure reaction alone. But again, the whole instinct-autopilot-don't-think-about-it thing wore off after a few minutes because there was only so much that could happen before Touya's emotions overrode his desperate plea for help to his instincts.

And Yukito apologizing for _coming_ was just about that precise limit.

"What the _hell_ are you sorry for?" Touya said dumbly—flatly. "Tell me, please, because I have no fucking idea."

Yukito's eyes had expanded to the point where they looked like they'd outgrow his glasses. The dancer's expression seemed to bear a promise of further tears at Touya's unexpected tone. He opened his mouth, glanced away, then closed it, looking three times as awful as before, and twice as likely to pass out.

This was why Touya wished he'd been stuck with instincts rather than a brain—and if it had to be a brain, then a smarter one instead of his current one. Not only would it have helped him not get temporarily kicked off the team for his failing math grade, but it also would have stopped him from fucking asking this poor fucking kid why he was apologizing because what kind of bastard asked his best friend that?

Well. Seishiro would, but the day that Touya and Seishiro had something in common was the day Touya committed suicide, because that was just common sense.

In the meantime, Yukito's hand had hesitantly slid over Touya's fingers, the dancer's gaze still directed downward and away from Touya's face. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"See what?" Touya snorted. "Sakurazuka being a bastard? I see it all the time."

The athlete saw Yukito's shoulders move a bit, and if he listened closely, he could've sworn he heard a ghost of a chuckle. And maybe it wasn't just a ghost of one, because suddenly, Yukito met Touya's eyes, the dancer's gaze steadier now, and said, "I know…I know you don't like…you know…me and guys…" Yukito looked down again.

Touya's eyebrows rose. "What? You mean walking in on you getting down with other dudes? I don't care. Since when have I ever punched someone who was getting you hot? I punched Seishiro because he's Seishiro."

This time, Yukito laughed full out. And when the brief laughter died down (all too soon in Touya's opinion), a tiny smile remained on the dancer's tearstained, red-eyed face. "If you broke his nose, he's going to hound you with the hospital bill—and then he'll sue."

Touya rolled his eyes and snorted again. "For what? Getting his dick out of somewhere it doesn't belong?" He sighed, looking down at Yukito with traces of playfulness. "Now we're going to have to sterilize your mouth again."

Yukito laughed into his hand, eyes closed up and crinkled behind his glasses. Touya had always found Yukito's laugh the kind of laugh characters in a movie would have—laughs like they were recorded over and over to get just the right pitch, just the right amount of vibration—photo-shopped, in a way, only for sound rather than sight. Yukito's laugh was full and breathless; whenever the dancer laughed, it sounded like he'd been laughing all day. Most of the time, Touya was glad that the dancer also had the habit of his eyes smiling closed full blast when he laughed so that Yukito wouldn't be able to see Touya's stupid grin whenever the dancer was laughing.

"See?" Touya continued when Yukito had calmed down, still smiling gently. "Spend more time making fun of Sakurazuka with me instead of sucking his dick. I bet your blows are too good for him anyway."

"He lets me though," Yukito said in a voice so soft that Touya thought he could've imagined the dancer speaking—and with the words coming next, the athlete wished he _was_ imagining Yukito speaking. "He has sex with me. And he doesn't ask for anything else. He doesn't hurt me and he's careful."

This was so messed up that Touya didn't know where it was going to go—but wherever it was heading for was going to be even more messed up. Also, he wasn't sure why they were having this talk when they hadn't had it for this past entire year, although he supposed it was a result of always carefully treading _around_ the fact that starting this year, Yukito had taken up slut-ism as a new hobby. So Touya guessed that now was as good a time as any to set Yukito straight on how following down the Maestro's road wasn't exactly the best way on living life without contracting every STD known currently to man and possibly even lending himself as material to discovering some that weren't.

Plus, Touya really, really, really didn't like Seishiro.

Really.

"So is that all?" Touya asked sarcastically. "As long as he's not some S&M freak, doesn't want to be in a relationship with you, and he'll do you until dawn, you're happy? That's quite the criteria to fill."

Yukito's eyes widened.

Yeah. Touya had just done it _again_. He'd meant for it to come out another way—a way that would've gotten the point across but in a way that sounded as if Touya simply was concerned over Yukito's well-being relationship-wise rather than sounding like the hardass best friend who hated homos.

Which Touya totally didn't.

"Wait," Touya winced at how he sputtered, hand outstretched. But Yukito just smiled sadly, his eyes filled with something that Touya didn't want to exist, that he didn't want Yukito to ever have to have his eyes filled with. The dancer curled his fingers over Touya's outstretched hand and gently pushed it down, setting it back against the athlete's lap.

Touya watched, almost helplessly, as Yukito threaded his fingers through the athlete's and held up their intertwined hands at face level. The dancer was still wearing that sad, hesitant half-smile. "I'm fine, okay? You don't have to worry about me. You've got a ton on your own plate. If you want, I'll try not to hang around Seishiro as much, though."

"Yukito," he began, tightening his fingers, not wanting the contact to end for reasons that he couldn't figure out.

But the dancer had already slipped his slender hand out of the hold and was putting the last of his pencils and books into his book bag. "Get more sleep, Touya," Yukito continued, his smile sadder than ever. A part of Touya even suspected that Yukito didn't exactly know how sad he really looked. "You look really tired these days."

"Says the person who could use the bags under his eyes as extra backpacks," Touya muttered, grabbing the rest of the dancer's materials before Yukito could get to them and stuffed them into the book bag himself. "C'mon. Get up. I'll carry your bag for you since you fucking look like you're going to fucking collapse any second." He slung the strap over his shoulder before Yukito could take it and run like the self-sacrificing kid he was.

"Touya," Yukito interfered softly, as the athlete was already stomping towards the front of the school where the Town cars drove by to pick up students. "You have to finish your math—and I have to talk to Seishiro—"

It definitely wasn't autopilot, but whatever it was definitely didn't have Touya's permission when it rose up unknowingly inside of the athlete, spread through his bodies, all the way to his fingertips, and turned him around, making his arms grab Yukito's small shoulders and shake the dancer. "_Why_ do you _have_ to do it with every guy at school? And _then_ some?" Touya demanded. "I don't fucking get why you can't just date a guy like a normal person instead of playing the Maestro's fucking protégée or something and being a fucking whore. If I had a penny for every different guy that walks buy your studio, watching you pop, lock, and drop your ass, then I'd have three times my dad's monthly salary and do you know how fucking _much_ that is?"

Touya saw that Yukito, shocked as he was, was about to say something, but the athlete wasn't finished just yet. "And whenever you try and have a fuck buddy, he always fucks around with you. Why do you always pick someone who'll just screw you up and then leave? I get that maybe you just want someone to get you hot, but why do you always have to pick assholes who're just in it for a fuck? Why can't you get anyone that_ likes_ you? Or better yet, someone you like? Because I fucking know that you hate those jackasses as much as I do."

The dancer's cheekbones were wet now and Touya was groping through absolute darkness. He didn't know what was coming out of his mouth and he knew even less the reasons for why all this was coming out of his mouth. All that he knew was that he had to do something before high school turned Yukito into something that it turned a lot of people into and something that Touya didn't want his best friend to ever become.

"Then," Yukito's voice was barely coming out. "What do you want me to do?"

The words that came out of Touya next were neither autopilot, nor he himself, nor his mind, nor anything reasonable or sane.

"If you want to do it," Touya whispered, "Do it with me."

* * *

**A/N: **So...um, I don't really have any excuses for this other than the fact that I felt like these two hadn't gotten any screen time ever, and I felt like developing-relationship-from-friendship-angst so I made this. And hopefully it's kind of good...? My attempt in explaining why there's all this sudden ZOMGDRAMA at once is because they just started freshman year and all of a sudden Yukito starts being all Seishiro-like and Touya's like 0_0 WTF so yeah. (But we all know why Yukito doesn't want to date anyone ^_^;;) Anyway, I'm going to stop talking because I really have nothing informative to say except for the usual customary fact that Compelled is still alive (miraculously), Seishiro and Subaru will get there (semi) happy ending in Impulse, and Unveiled is much alive and healthier than Compelled is, as most of you can tell.

(Finals season has arrived, so...yeah. I mean, I can't really say that I'll be taking a break because of that, because I've been taking a break without that excuse anyhow -_-)


	37. S and the Maestro's Story IX

S and the Maestro's Story IX

Seishiro leaned forward on the conductor's stand, relieving all of his weight on the metal, hands gripping the edges and knuckles turned white from all the squeezing. From the scene that was playing out in front of him and the migraine that was developing as an effect from it, he felt as though he could accidentally indent his fingerprints into the stand.

There were only two more weeks until the graduation ceremony—since the Holy Trinity colleges had their graduations early—and this was one of the very last few rehearsals the orchestra would have with its full members as trying to book over fifty students all at the same time, putting aside conflicting schedules, was already difficult as it was. Certainly, they'd have many more practices with individual sections, but full orchestra rehearsal was vital and rare.

And as every single second of practice time was precious during full rehearsals, the tiniest slip up caused unstoppable frustration within the members. It usually also caused Seishiro to threaten someone's life with his abnormally sharpened conductor's baton.

But everyone who had ever been in a music ensemble knew that there had to be at least one person or one concept that only days before the event, inevitably, would come crashing down even though times upon times before this person had done everything perfectly or this concept had never gone wrong.

Today, or rather, this time, it was a person.

Moreover, Seishiro couldn't even threaten the person's life with his rapier-resembling-baton.

For today, this time, the person was Subaru.

And perhaps any other day than today, or any other time than recently, Seishiro would have been able to threaten ever Subaru's life with his rapier-resembling baton, but recently, and especially today, Subaru had looked like he hadn't had any sleep in years. Moreover, the expression on his face had nearly made six of Seishiro's pretty flutists cry simply by an initial glance. And to add insult to injury, the Maestro had been receiving identical sky blue death glares since the very start of practice—one direction from the very front of the violin's row, and then another direction coming from Seishiro's side, all the way from behind the Steinway.

Fai and Yuui seemed to think for one inexplicable reason or another that probably only made sense to ridiculously incomprehensible twins that it was Seishiro's fault Subaru looked like he was on death row. To worsen things even further, the rest of the orchestra was now directing their death glares toward Subaru, who at this point, appeared to be on the verge of tears and collapse himself.

"Let's just restart it from measure fifty-one," Seishiro said briskly, and pointedly without looking at the trumpeter, he added, "Try to get it right this time, Subaru—just purse your lips more and the note should come out correctly."

Just as the conductor raised his baton, he managed to spare the tiniest, swiftest glance at Subaru's face, and the expression as the trumpeter raised his instrument, nearly caused Seishiro to _drop_ the baton.

It was a face that Seishiro had only ever seen the twins wear so seriously and so clearly. A face that expressed such intense desperation and self-hatred, that it was obvious Subaru was not in the safe state of mind to be holding up the dual burden of keeping up his studies while having to be the one with the unbelievable stress as the main performer in the Maestro's graduation of all graduations. And everything that went along with that—be it the workload, the hectic scheduling, the lack of sleep, the necessary overdose of coffee, every single orchestra student knifing him with killing looks each time a mistake was made—

And, as per usual, as per every single fucking time, as per ever since Seishiro had ever come into Subaru's life—

It was the Maestro's fault that this kid's life was being screwed up again.

_CLANG_

There wasn't a single pair of eyes that weren't staring at Seishiro. Every single pair of eyes had followed the moment Seishiro's fingers let go of the baton to the millisecond that it had fallen and clanged against the metal stand. All instruments were to the students' lips and all instruments had bows on their strings, fingers to their keys, drumsticks to their drums, all ready to begin, until the Maestro's baton dropped.

"Subaru," Seishiro whispered softly, and yet it was somehow so loud it echoed through the silence. "Get out."

Although absolutely not a breath disturbed the deafening silence, just as somehow Seishiro's whisper was equal to that of a thousand screams, somehow, everyone's sharp gasps could be heard throughout the practice hall. And somehow, with some inhuman sort of strength, Seishiro managed to bring himself to look at Subaru's face—to look at the expression the conductor knew would haunt him until he died, whether heaven or hell was his destination.

And the Maestro had never been more right.

A description of the trumpeter's expression would just be an insult to Subaru himself. There was no form of sadness or hurt or perhaps even anger that wasn't present in Subaru's tragically beautiful green eyes. It was all there and it was all facing Seishiro with the force of all the natural disasters that had hit earth since the beginning of time.

It would only take one more word to get Subaru to move and for Subaru to finally, _finally_, hate Seishiro forever.

"Leave."

And Subaru left.

* * *

The hallway leading to the doctor's office was empty, and the entire medical building of Akamizu was rather quiet in all. Most likely it was due to the fact that the medicine students had been told to attend to their self assignments while the head of the Medicine and Health Department was packing for his trip to America for a spring convention.

Subaru didn't feel his body, didn't feel his legs walking him to Kyle's room. He merely saw his feet, moving one in front of the other in a slow steady pace, stepping over the tiles.

* * *

Seishiro never would have thought that pushing piano keys up and down all day could have ever resulted in the amount of remarkable strength Yuui was currently using to punch his face with. Naturally, the twins had stayed behind long after everyone else had more or less sprinted out of the rehearsal hall once the Maestro had set his baton into the case. Fai had wasted no time in locking the double doors, and his twin had wasted no time in walking up to Seishiro, hips swinging perfectly side-to-side, twisting back his fist, and then letting it loose so hard that Seishiro knocked his head back against the sharp edge of the piano.

Because Seishiro had allowed himself to be hit, he'd been able to catch himself so that he didn't lose too many IQ points, and all he'd have in a few hours was an immensely purple bruise. But the message was more than clear. And even if it hadn't been, Fluorite twins being Fluorite twins, they were about to make it so clear, it would be reach-through.

"You've went beyond bastard to the point where there's no longer a word for what you are," Yuui said, beautiful face contorted—angel to devil. Seishiro would've smiled; honestly he would've, if not for the fact that Yuui probably would have killed his own self just out of absolute frustrated anger. Fai, in the background, merely sat on a chair beside his violin case and stared silently into Seishiro's eyes.

But his unspoken words were far louder than the ones Yuui hissed.

"Even if I said I could explain, you wouldn't let me, would you?" Seishiro asked softly, readjusting his glasses.

Yuui slapped him this time—stinging across the cheek.

"I would _love_," the pianist said, voice dripping with cold sarcasm, "to hear the explanation this time, almighty Maestro. I would also love to hear the explanation you'd offer if I'd told Kamui about all of this, which you know that I only haven't because Fai loves Subaru too much and it'd be the end of what Kamui could take anyway even if he did know."

Seishiro merely raised his eyebrows, his face smoothly expressionless.

Meters away, Fai spoke. He said in a tone just loud enough, "Subaru doesn't care." The blue eyes were piercingly lovely. "He just loves you."

Only things weren't that simple. Perhaps to Fai it was, and perhaps even to Yuui, the anti-lover, it was, too. But it wasn't even close in Seishiro's view. It wasn't as simple as Subaru loved him, and he loved Subaru and therefore all was right with the world, happily ever after, the end. It wasn't like that and it would never be like that.

Maybe it could've been like that once upon a time. Maybe it could've been like that long, long ago in a kingdom far, far away. But never now, and never here, and never after all that'd happened.

Then again, Yuui and Fai wouldn't know this. How could they? How could they ever know how much it hurt you to have to let go of someone you loved for that someone's own good? How could they know how impossible it felt after you hurt that someone? How could they know how it felt that it wouldn't matter if the world split into three pieces as long as that someone loved you because that someone _was_ your world?

Yuui and Fai couldn't know that.

They'd never been with someone they loved yet.

Yes, Seishiro knew that Yuui had a someone he loved, but if you hadn't been with that person yet—if you hadn't been in a relationship, been in something where you were allowed to touch him whenever you wanted, to stroke his bangs back while he bent his head at three in the morning finishing an essay; to see him for the first time with shadows under his eyes and sweat-pants two sizes too big, and think he was the most beautiful sight you'd ever seen; to laugh at him when he unwisely carried five textbooks all at once and toppled over; to hold his face in your hands and assure him that he wasn't going to fail his mid-terms because you'd watched him study through nights upon nights, even after he was exhausted after having sex with you, and because he was brilliant and he should know that.

And Fai. Fai didn't love Ashura. If Fai really loved Ashura, they would have overcome Fai's trauma long ago.

How could Fai and Yuui _ever_ know?

Seishiro stared down at Yuui, crumpled on his side on the ground with Fai kneeling over him, tense and staring alarmed up at the Maestro. The conductor uncurled his fist and felt his knuckles pulse painfully. Fai was checking his brother over. "If you'd broken his nose…" Fai whistled softly. "Ashura would've been something."

"Ashura wouldn't understand either," Seishiro said quietly—dangerously. "Yuui doesn't. You don't. Don't fucking any of you try to tell me what to do with Subaru."

Fai stroked his unconscious brother's hair back, revealing the bruised cheek, and bleeding lip. The violinist looked up into the Maestro's eyes. "I know. Yuui shouldn't have said a lot of what he did. But you shouldn't have told Subaru to leave just like that. I know that you know better than anyone the hours he put into that piece. And who he did all that for. You also know that he probably thinks the reason you kicked him off today was because of the mistakes he was making, and you know as well as anyone that it was only because he was nervous. Subaru's a fucking amazing trumpeter, and he practices for as long as Yuui and I do during the entire year put together."

It was Seishiro's turn to say, "I know."

"You love him," Fai said simply.

"I hate him," Seishiro said.

Fai waited.

"I love him," said Seishiro.

The violinist smiled. "Four years is a long time. It feels longer when you're thirteen."

"It was long for me, too," the conductor gripped the edge of the stand. "I was fifteen. And, God," Seishiro stared steadily at Fai. "Whenever I see him, I see _everything_."

"Everything? All four years?"

"It goes through my mind in the time it takes to reach out and touch him."

Fai stared back just as steadily, cradling his twin in his arms. "So touch him."

* * *

Kyle was seated at his desk when Subaru closed the door of the infirmary behind himself. The lights were bright and fluorescent and somewhat harsh against Subaru's damp, reddened eyes. He coughed softly, waiting for Kyle to turn around. If possible, he wanted to get this done as swiftly as it _could _be done without being more of a bastard to the doctor than he'd been all year.

Kyle never turned around.

The doctor did, however, say quietly, "I already know."

And Subaru couldn't really say he was surprised. Because Kyle was smart, and Subaru knew that, and it wasn't all that unexpected at all that Kyle would know. Neither was the quiet manner with which the doctor seemed to be handling this with—either way, Subaru felt like he should run under a bus. And now, really, what was Subaru supposed to do? What was anyone supposed to do when someone you were supposed to have loved told you that they already knew how you'd never loved them in the first place? That instead of loving Kyle, Kyle who'd done nothing to Subaru but kindnesses, instead, Subaru loved someone who not only had stopped loving Subaru back ages ago (and that was if he'd ever loved Subaru at all), but also hurt Subaru like no one had ever hurt him before.

All of these reasons sprinting through Subaru's mind, in the end, was why the trumpeter did nothing to stop Kyle from punching his face. It was why he did nothing when Kyle kicked his stomach or swiped him in the legs or punched him again and again until Subaru hit the ground. It was why Subaru did nothing but lie unmoving and silent while Kyle beat him in equal silence. After all, compared to the pain Seishiro had given him before, and compared to the pain Subaru must have given to Kyle throughout the year, this was nothing.

Besides—it was nothing short of what Subaru deserved.

So Subaru planned to let Kyle do whatever Kyle wanted to do to him for as long as it took until Kyle was satisfied. And even then, Subaru probably wouldn't have had any guilt appeased.

Subaru couldn't breathe right now. He was up against the wall and with every blow Kyle was beating into him, his head knocked up against the metal legs of a gurney. One hit, two hits, three hits, and Subaru's head no longer hurt, but his vision was no longer clear either. The floor was tilting and shifting beneath his body and it felt as though his insides were fighting their way up his throat.

His equilibrium turned even further when he felt Kyle grasp his shoulders, wrenching him upright and sending the entire room into sickeningly blurry waves of color. Subaru couldn't process—couldn't process how it seemed as though Kyle was stronger than usual, Kyle was doing something that Subaru hadn't intended to happen. The trumpeter felt a rush of cold air from the air conditioning surrounding them against his own bare skin—bare skin that wasn't supposed to be bare. He heard the sound of ripping fabric, and his head spun and stung so badly that he wasn't sure even then if it was his own clothes.

"The Maestro loves you," Kyle's voice said into his ear. "The Maestro's always loved you, he loves you now, and everyone knows that he'll always love you, but you can't see it. You've never seen it, and you've never realized that Seishiro's the kind of person who needs someone to chase after him—something you thought was impossible. If you went after him, he wouldn't be hurting. If you'd gone after him, you wouldn't have had to play with me and hurt me like you hurt him."

Even with the nausea biting at his stomach, and Kyle's hands too tight on his body and his vision disoriented and awful and the air cold and painful, Subaru could still very clearly feel liquid warmth trickling uncontrolled down his cheeks. Adrenaline filled his head and a part of him could tell that Kyle's words couldn't be true, but they sounded so true, and whether they were lies or not, Subaru had fucked up either way.

Subaru knew that he was always causing Seishiro pain whether it was because the Maestro, by some impossible chance, really had loved the trumpeter by Subaru had always been too blind and stupid to see it, or because Subaru had always followed Seishiro around hoping that the Maestro would love him back when all it did was put more people on Seishiro's case—whether it was Fai and Yuui or Kamui or Fuuma or Yuuko.

Everyone had always pinned Seishiro as the bad guy, sympathizing with Subaru. Even the conductor's cousin had sided with Subaru, and Subaru hadn't asked any of them to do that. He'd always wished that he was brave enough, that he had enough nerve to tell them to consider how Seishiro felt—to consider that maybe Seishiro wasn't the one at fault and that it was Subaru's, and that Seishiro must feel like fucking crap when everyone was ganging up against him and it wasn't even his fault.

Everyone was always forcing Seishiro to fall in love with Subaru, when it was clear that Seishiro didn't want to love Subaru, and Seishiro didn't, and even now when Seishiro was going out of his way to be friends with Subaru, Fai and Yuui were right on his case again to be more than friends and Subaru just wanted to scream at them to stop.

Stop—because Seishiro shouldn't have to "love" someone he didn't.

Subaru didn't fight back as he felt Kyle's fingers wandering inside of him, wrapping around his cock and pumping it mockingly. He didn't fight back as he felt himself come, splattering to the tips of his hair just like that one time in the bathroom of his own dormitory—shameful and disgusting, and Kyle had every right to do this.

He didn't fight back as Kyle forced something into his mouth and covered his nose so he'd have no choice but to swallow. He didn't fight back as Kyle kicked him once again, knocking him to collapse onto the cold tiles. "You made your brother worry, didn't you? You made him and the Maestro's brother lose each other because you didn't know how to take care of your own issues by yourself. And because Kamui worried, Yuui worried. And because Yuui worried, Fai worried. Fai's been kind to you over the past few years, hasn't he? And all you do is take—you keep taking from everyone around you because you're always getting into trouble and you never give back. The exact same goes for me and for Seishiro."

Subaru shut his eyes, pushing out the tears. He tasted salt against his tongue. "I know," he whispered, voice hoarse.

Kyle's tone was the same calm and quiet and cool as it was at the very beginning. He kicked Subaru again, and this time, Subaru coughed, saliva leaking onto the tiles. "I don't hear you."

"I know," Subaru said a little louder.

Kyle kicked his bare stomach again, and this time said, "You're a whore."

Subaru coughed again, but this time, there was a different tasting liquid in his mouth, and when it flew onto the floor in front of him, his wet eyes and aching vision saw spots of red.

Blood.

Subaru wasn't afraid of the sight of blood, and even now the crimson droplets didn't incite anything in him but a further feeling of relief—relief that he was the only one in here and neither Seishiro nor Fai were here to see this, let alone Kamui. If anyone else was here, they'd instantly blame Kyle, and then they might even instantly blame Seishiro, too. Subaru didn't want that. He just wanted to be able to fix everything—to make everything right even though he knew that was impossible. He just didn't want everyone to go up against each other because of his faults.

He felt Kyle pick him up by his hair and drag him along the tiles, propping him up haphazardly against something cold and metal. It was only seconds after Subaru was leaning on the cold metal, digging into his skin, that he started to shiver. The trumpeter heard sudden footsteps that weren't Kyle's and a voice that wasn't Kyle's and then he felt Kyle's hand whip across his cheek, stinging.

There were more voices, swirling around Subaru like an unidentifiable mix of sounds, incomprehensible from one another. The speakers grew and lessened in volume and before Subaru had finished catching his breath, another impact slammed him against something hard and cold, and he felt his head snap back and something wet and warm was dripping out of the side of his head and it smelled like iron and tasted like iron and he felt familiar, gentle hands on him and it smelled like Fai but it couldn't be Fai but it was but it shouldn't be.

And then someone was lifting Fai off from Subaru and he could hear Fai's voice panicking and he saw the blurred outlines of Fai and Seishiro as the light blacked and whitened simultaneously and Subaru wanted to shield his eyes but he had to make sure he saw he couldn't fall asleep but he was so tired and it hurt everything hurt and hurt and hurt and his head was ringing and the wet and warm from his head was starting to flow closer to his eyes and he felt something hard and moist against his stomach and he needed to get it out because it was hot and screaming.

But then he heard a thump and the blurred outline that was Fai collapsed to the ground and Kyle was all over him and their shapes congealed together and everything was too bright and Subaru was fighting to keep his eyes opened and his hands instinctively drifted down because something wanted out and it started to hurt and he didn't know why anymore because he didn't care he just started pumping up and down fast even if it left his skin raw.

He heard Fai sighing and screaming and sighing and pleading and just as a tiny fraction of what wanted to get out of Subaru got out Kyle started getting off of Fai and the Kyle outline had started to make its way to Subaru and Subaru wanted something to happen because everything hurt and his insides and outsides and everything was burning up and he thought he would turn into ashes and he needed someone he didn't care if it was Kyle or anyone but someone had to fuck him because this needed out and Subaru couldn't take it anymore and it hurt—

* * *

**A/N: **Erm...I originally tried to squish the entire thing into one chapter, but it was going over ten pages single spaced (which for me is the max on how much I want for one chapter), so I decided to cut it off before Seishiro's POV. Plus, tomorrow, well, today, I guess since it's half past midnight, is my last day of my first year of high school so I felt like being productive and posting something. Usually when I post something it makes me want to write more, and I haven't written on Impulse for ages. Maybe I'll just put some drabbles up or something, later on. I'm kind of on a Watch This Space high even though that's probably collecting dust on FF. I'm practicing characterization before I continue that since I don't want my OCs to suck.

So, anyway, I'll stop rambling and let you revel in the...angst? I don't know if it's angst or just a lot of messed up.

Whatever it is, I hope it wasn't too bad. o_O


	38. S and the Maestro's Story X

S and the Maestro's Story X

Seishiro had made up his mind that when this was all over, if he got out of this with whatever semblance of sanity he was born with intact, then he would sue Akamizu's campus layout designer because there was no reason in this world or the next why the music department should be nearly half a mile away from the medicine and health department because music had everything to do with a human's well-being, but Seishiro and Ashura and Yuui sprinting as fast as their legs could carry them was not helping _their _health at all.

As for their mental state, Seishiro thought that Ashura would just be lucky if both twins didn't send themselves to the asylum after this. Yuui was already hyperventilating, making his sprinting slower, clumsier, but all the more desperate.

However, considering that Fai had just run off before Yuui had woken up, and then the pianist having to wake up to Ashura standing over him while the Maestro had his head down on the piano, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, Yuui had not that bad of a mental state of current mind. At least, not as bad as it could be if the pianist knew what Seishiro had told Ashura to bring when he finally figured out where Subaru and Fai were.

At this very second, while they sprinted as fast as their legs could carry them toward the medicine and health department, on in the inside of Ashura's thin jacket was a gun.

A pistol.

Loaded and deadly, and ready for use whenever the trigger was pulled.

Perhaps it was Seishiro that needed to be locked in an asylum, because in all honesty, he wasn't even sure what they were going to use the gun for (who they were going to use it on). Regardless of how high in society you were, covering up a murder could cost you more than you ever wanted to pay.

And if you were lucky, that just meant hefty sums of money.

Seishiro hoped things wouldn't come to him being lucky or not.

Ashura yanked open the doors to the building as the three skidded to a stop at the top of the stone steps. Just like they'd expected, the entire building was empty due to the conventions and field trips all of the students who majored in this department were attending. Yuui stepped through the doorway silently, hands visibly shaking against his sides.

The air prickled, pushing Seishiro to say something, say anything—after all, wasn't the ringleader supposed to console his circus acts in times of need? And fucking ringleader or not, Ashura and Yuui were still younger than Seishiro—he was their senior, the ones who'd led them and taught them and pulled them into all of this fucked up business anyhow. He knew he was supposed to say something—he should say something, but absolutely nothing came out of his mouth. Even when he parted his lips, wet them, breathed in, Seishiro couldn't say anything.

And from the frozen expression on Ashura's face and the frozen fear on Yuui's, neither could they.

All three of them stood with the entrance just inches behind them, staring down the dimly lit hallway together with one single light at the end—only one door seemed to have light shining from beneath it. Seishiro's mind was whirling with possibilities—would the door be locked? Would it be a room that they had to have a department pass in order to open? Would Kyle even be predictable enough to be in his department building? What if that wasn't even the right room?

Ashura and Yuui were already beginning to walk when Seishiro ran after them and grabbed both of their wrists. They turned around, eyes terrified and expressions dead. All three of their chests were heaving from running and frightened adrenaline. "Ashura," Seishiro breathed. "Go around and find the window to that room, and whatever you do, don't look into it—just find it and make sure you can open it. And don't fucking dare take the thing out or _use_ it, God forbid, until I say, do you understand? You can come in only after you've heard me go in with Yuui—_do you understand_?" He shook the artist a little.

It didn't seem to have any effect on Ashura's frozen emptiness. "I understand," was all that was said before the artist turned around robotically and headed outside.

Seishiro closed his eyes briefly and then opened them at Yuui, trembling with his pitifully beautiful blue eyes wide with absolute terror. For this, Seishiro at least thought he was better equipped than with Ashura, because Ashura fucking scared everyone. The Maestro knelt down on one knee and took the pianist's shaking hands. "Listen to me," he started softly. Yuui was clenching his teeth visibly, eyes beginning to puff, preparing for tears.

The Maestro really didn't need a Fluorite twin crying—there was nothing more tragic than seeing those clear sky blue eyes clouded with tears. And right now, that sight might just make the conductor burst in there and start beating Kyle's head in with a chair. "Yuui, look at me." Yuui looked at Seishiro and shook his head desperately, panicking.

"Seishiro," Yuui pleaded. "Seishiro. Seishiro."

"Listen to me," the conductor repeated, quietly and calmly. "You are Yuui fucking Fluorite. You're the badass, asshole, fucking, slutty whore that struts around knowing how fucking hot you are. Everyone can be with you but no one can have you and no one makes you cry—no fucking anyone makes you feel anything you don't want to. Are you listening?"

Yuui shut his eyes and shook his head desperately again. "I'm sorry. Seishiro. Seishiro, I'm so sorry." The pale knuckles paled even further as the pianist's hands gripped Seishiro's tightly.

"What the fuck for?" The Maestro sighed and straightened up. "I punched you back so we're good for now. Even then I think Ashura's pissed at me—at least I was careful enough not to bruise your pretty face, right? How am I going to buy new leather seats for my yacht if I can't pimp you off?"

The pianist stepped up against Seishiro, burying his face in the conductor's shirt. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Seishiro. Seishiro." Yuui's voice was muffled. "Seishiro." Pale hands refused to let go of the Maestro's. "Seishiro."

The conductor breathed in and out evenly, relieved that the pianist had stopped shaking.

"Seishiro," Yuui's voice trembled with the foreshadowing of tears. "I'm so sorry. Seishiro. I'm so sorry." Suddenly, the pianist pulled back and tipped his face up, eyes wet and red, brimming but not yet overflowing, looking up into Seishiro's face. "You love Subaru so much—you love him so much. You love him so much and it hurts me and Fai, too. We love you, too." Yuui's teeth clenched again, as he pulled himself onto his toes and brushed his lips over Seishiro's. "It hurts us because Kyle was never our guardian," Yuui said, tears streaming down his face almost angrily.

Seishiro couldn't breathe.

The pianist's voice was steady. "He was never our guardian, but that didn't mean we didn't find one."

"Why're you sorry?" the Maestro whispered.

Yuui bit his lip, and the tears suddenly streamed harder. "Because you love him so much—you love him so much and he can't see it. And he loves you so much but you won't let him. You love him so much—_so much_—so much that you might not even know because you can't see it like we can."

"Fai is in trouble because of me," Seishiro reminded the pianist quietly.

The pianist swallowed. "Fai loves Subaru. I love you."

The Maestro stared. And then took Yuui's wrist and made to walk. This wasn't the time to do this. Subaru and Fai were in there with Kyle. "We can't talk like this right now," Seishiro said. "Ashura's probably wondering what the hell we're—"

But Yuui yanked his wrist out of Seishiro's grasp. The Maestro turned around and saw the pianist's eyes incredulous, indignant, and furious. "Why do you fucking keep doing that?" Yuui whispered, voice deadly. "Why, whenever someone tells you they love you whether it's family with Fuuma, or friendship with me and Fai, and especially lovers with Subaru, why do you always fucking run away? Do you really want to be a hated bastard with just fuck buddies his entire life? Do you want to be eighty-fucking-years-old and buying yourself fifteen-year-old whores or something? Fucking them all alone in your fucking estate?"

Seishiro remained expressionless.

Yuui's eyes were almost confused. "Me…Fai, Kamui, Subaru, Amaterasu, Ashura, Tomoyo, the ones from Kuriakiri and Sabakurein…the Trinity…we love the Maestro, sure. But we love Seishiro more."

Seishiro couldn't do this. He couldn't break down until he'd made things right again—made things the same from before he'd fucked everything up because he'd taken being a bastard one step too far. He had to kick Kyle into oblivion, make sure Fai was safe and safe in his mind, and then—

He had to say goodbye to Subaru.

The conductor averted gazes with Yuui and took out his cell phone, swiftly pulling out names and texting, praying to anything that might be listening up above that these people would come and come fast. He needed all of them if whatever was happening in that room met with Seishiro's horrific expectations.

"C'mon," Seishiro said quietly, taking Yuui by the hand and leading him down the hallway. This time, the pianist followed silently and obediently, but the conductor could still feel that Yuui was trying his fucking hardest to press his words into Seishiro's mind even when there were no words being exchanged between them.

Seishiro's mind was in a fucking whirlwind.

He'd never thought about the future. Never. When he had been a boy, he'd never thought about getting into high school or what it'd be like to drive and drink. When he'd been in high school, he never thought about getting into college or what it'd be like to finally be part of the Trinity. And now that he was in college, he never thought about what orchestra he'd join and how he would lead them.

Never.

He'd always played it by ear because to him it was just that much safer. Besides, because he was who he was, he'd always known what high school and college he would go to—whichever one he wanted to go to, he'd go to. And now that he was graduating, whichever orchestra he would want to lead, he would lead.

It'd been like that with people around him, too.

He'd never worried about making friends, having partners, acquaintances, people to call on for orchestra help or benefit preparations. And he definitely had never worried about having someone to love—someone who'd love him back. There'd never been a purpose, a point, a reason—a need nor a want.

If he wanted to fuck someone, he'd fuck them. If he wanted someone to fuck him, they'd fuck him. If he needed extra flutes or trombones, he'd get extra flutes or trombones. If he wanted someone to sell him exceptional cruise tickets, someone would sell him exceptional cruise tickets. It'd always worked this way for Seishiro and he'd never imagined it any other way.

Until the Circus.

Until the Circus, the Circus that'd all started with Seishiro going out with everyone from A-to-Z, from Amaterasu to Yukito to Ashura to everyone that was now in the Trinity. Not that it could've even be called going out—just playing around when they had been in middle school, and casual fuck buddies when they'd been in high school. And for some odd reason, whenever Seishiro had wanted something out of them, they never really always gave it to him free of cost—and if at all, at times. And if they had given what he wanted, it'd been after hours of phone calls and often money spent on ridiculously overpriced gifts—overpriced, even in terms of socialites.

But the Circus had been nothing compared to Subaru.

Subaru had given Seishiro everything the Maestro wanted, asked for, felt like, needed—everything.

Nothing expected in return, no boundaries, no gifts—nothing.

That wasn't the part that had confounded Seishiro though. The part that had gripped Seishiro and left him utterly confused and lost (something he thought he never would, could, or should be) was that it felt like even though Seishiro had neither been physically nor hypothetically, not even emotionally, giving anything back to Subaru—

The trumpeter already had something from Seishiro.

It had been as though every time they spent time together, every time Subaru had done something for Seishiro, every time Seishiro had anything to do with Subaru, told Subaru more about himself, found out more about Subaru, every time that had happened, it had felt as though a piece of Seishiro floated away and landed in Subaru's hands.

Not as though the trumpeter had taken a piece or as though the conductor had lessened. It'd been more like…the pieces were being kept safe, cared for, nursed by Subaru—shined and cleaned and then handed back to Seishiro whenever the conductor needed them again. Sometimes the pieces had even been given back in better condition than they'd started out.

And before Subaru had even been a quarter of the way done with the pieces, the Circus, people, his peers, they'd all started noticing that Seishiro was _changing_.

_He wasn't nice like that when he fucked _me_._

_He never made sure _I _was on time for school the morning after._

_He never even _spoke _to me when he did me._

_I swore that he used to go to more parties before._

_He doesn't even get high any more, does he?_

_What the hell is so special about Sumeragi? His twin is hotter._

_Why do Sumeragi when you've got the fucking Fluorites in your bed?_

_God, does he love him or something?_

_He's not the Maestro any more, is he?_

Seishiro knew that he didn't deserve to call Yuuko his mentor if he'd fallen to his knees in front of a wall of gossip as weak as this. But he had—he had because whenever he'd attended a party, it had followed him everywhere. The Circus had even tried to block it from him, but there had been little flies buzzing everywhere, slipping through the cracks and trying every which way they could to buzz at Seishiro's ears.

The buzzing had made him double back and start thinking about whether he really did do differently with Subaru. It'd made him question why he'd set his alarm especially hours early whenever Subaru slept over so that he could wake the trumpeter up for school. It'd made him question why he'd always go slow, be gentle, leave no marks whenever Subaru looked tired that night. It'd made him question why when Subaru was studying for exams, Seishiro was studying the same material with him just so the conductor could help.

It'd made him question if those pieces Subaru was always holding for Seishiro were what made up the conductor's heart.

And even though the Circus had become his only friends, at least that was what they had insisted they were (and anyone who knew the Circus knew how impossible it was to resist their insisting), even they had thought that Seishiro was the bastard Maestro, and being that, the conductor might feel someone once in a while, but there was no way for someone who acted like that to ever _have_ a heart.

Much less be able to give it away to someone—especially someone like Subaru, someone who probably had a dozen hearts ready to give away.

There had never been a moment where Seishiro had never wanted Subaru, never loved or never needed Subaru. But there had been innumerable moments where Seishiro had convinced himself that he never loved Subaru, that he couldn't and shouldn't and wouldn't love anyone, that he would never need anyone, that Subaru was just a good fuck, that he wanted to hurt and injure Subaru on the inside and outside for all the trouble he'd caused Seishiro.

And all that'd done was forced Seishiro to realize that even though he did want and love and need Subaru, the conductor wasn't allowed to. Seishiro shouldn't and couldn't love or want or need Subaru, because Seishiro wasn't good enough, would never be good enough, and had never been good enough. The conductor wasn't enough in anything for the likes of Subaru, even if Subaru might think otherwise.

He'd thought, this year, that maybe it'd be okay if they were friends. He'd thought that if it was just under the cover of friends, Subaru wouldn't be hurt, and he'd be able to back Kyle away gradually. And it'd seemed all right for the most part, once the silences and the uncertainty had been pushed away. But as it'd gone further, not only could Seishiro not stand just being friends, but it seemed that Subaru was still hurting when he was around Seishiro no matter what the pretense was.

It was better off for Subaru that they weren't even friends.

But Seishiro knew that this time around, he'd take care of what he'd caused, and he'd explain before he left—he wouldn't disappear again. After talking with Subaru all those nights throughout this year, Seishiro knew that disappearing left more of a scar than any time the conductor had beaten or fucked the trumpeter.

So he braced himself—he braced himself and told himself that he was the Maestro. Subaru had fallen in love with Seishiro, Subaru wanted Seishiro, and although Seishiro wanted Subaru, the Maestro couldn't. The Maestro had to take care of his orchestra, of his Circus, and anything the Maestro tried to have for himself that wasn't supposed to be his always died, was always scarred, and injured, and that couldn't happen to Subaru.

Seishiro was the Maestro and right fucking now, Subaru and Fai and Yuui were his Circus—they were his and Kyle couldn't touch them.

He opened the door.

Ashura ripped through the window.

Yuui screamed.

* * *

**A/N: **I don't know why, but all of these updates lately made me feel really...good...? Like I've still got that whole three-updates-in-one-week thing going. I remember how I sometimes used to be able to update twice in a day. ;_; It was good to be young. Or something. But yeah, ever since the whole "Maestro" thing fell into pace during Secrets and then Intrigue, it started to come on to me that Maestro wasn't really another name for Seishiro-to him, it's a job. It's him being the guardian, and even though he'd never admit it, like the older brother of the gang and since he's the one who taught them how to be like this, it's his responsibility to take care of them once they've got themselves into messed up situations.

And he thinks that he can't do all of this objectively if he lets himself be with Subaru-although the fact that he thinks he can be objective when it comes to his babies is already ridiculous. Seriously, the way he developed himself in my mind (because I still stand by the truth that my characters tie me in a chair and run rampant with their development so I made nothing) with how he thinks about the Circus, he's not even their older brother. I wouldn't go as far as saying he's like their parent, but they're definitely like his babies-Fai, Yuui, Kamui, and Subaru especially, since he raised them all by himself. (I feel like I'm making Seishiro sound like a kindergartner whose departing with the butterflies he raised from caterpillars)

Reviews because we're finally getting some action? (Seven more days till Indonesia)


	39. S and the Maestro's Story XI

**A/N: **So, there are some minor-minor-very-very-minor character appearances in here, and I think, and you'll probably think, that they're super-rushed and didn't get the amount of writing-concentration-level-type-thing that they deserved since I actually do really like these X/1999 characters, but I think given what Seishiro's brain has just been put through, and what I've been put through trying to get enough trauma-vibe into this for the past months, given all of that, I think that it's at least excusable that I didn't have much thought of minor-minor-character development. Sorry. T_T

But yeah, enjoy the brain-killery.

* * *

S and the Maestro's Story XI

At one point or another, all humans at least once in their life probably wish they had more than two hands—whether it was to multitask for school, hold more than one crying child, simply for the fun of it, or to reach out and catch one more thing that wouldn't cut it with just two hands, every human most likely had thought about this.

Right now, Seishiro was having that one time in a human's life.

He needed three more pairs of hands. Then he'd have four pairs—he'd use one pair to choke Kyle to death and gouge out the doctor's eyeballs; he'd use another to hold back Ashura; he'd use the third pair to keep Yuui from collapsing dead away; and he'd use the fourth pair to hold Subaru to his body and never let go.

The scene before him imprinted itself into his eyes, into his mind, and he didn't think that it would ever be possible for him to forget every single detail that unfolded in front of him. He didn't think he'd ever forget how Ashura's eyes went blank and dead and wide; how Yuui walked like a zombie to Fai's limp body across the room and fell to his knees; how Kyle stood leaning casually against the sink, peacefully watching everything; and how right at his feet, lay Subaru's beaten, battered, naked body, blood and fluids between his legs, blood and sweat matting his hair, dark blue and purple blooming all over his pale skin.

The exact same way Seishiro had found him in the bathtub three years ago.

"I was hoping you'd get here earlier," Kyle said, wrinkling his nose. "I thought I'd be able to at least make the six o'clock plane to the convention, but I scheduled for the next two flights just in case, so don't feel rushed." He leisurely straightened from the counter and began to walk slowly, one foot lazily in front of the other, towards where Yuui knelt and Ashura stood by the window—near Fai's body.

Seishiro's eyes whipped towards the artist and met his gaze, willing Ashura not to do something stupid—not to do something rash, not to do the Ashura-like thing that the Maestro was fucking scared he was going to do. But Ashura simply took a few steps around the blond twins, taking stand in front of them like a shield.

Okay. Okay—so far, everything was still relatively fine.

"I'm taking Subaru and Fai back," Seishiro said in a low voice, forcing his gaze to meet the doctor's head-on. "I'm taking them back and if you ever touch either of them again before they graduate—"

"You'll what?" Kyle laughed lightly. "Fai has to learn to get over himself, and since when are you in a position to tell me what not to do to Subaru considering what I've done isn't nearly as bad as what you've done to him again and again? I've just beat up his body a little bit, but you—you mangled that boy's heart into tiny, tiny pieces."

Seishiro felt all of the words, the plan that he was supposed to initiate, everything he was supposed to do—he felt all of that suddenly disappear within his mind, no longer able to remember what he was even here for because all he could see and hear was Kyle.

The doctor was staring fondly at something in the air. "We chatted a bit, Subaru and I did. Some of it was about you; some of it was about him and me. It was rather nice, you know. He told me lots of useful things—like how he still thinks that all of this is his fault because he thinks that he wanted you and went after you for too long and too hard and you got irritated at him for that and it burdened you and people blamed you instead of him and oh, he's _so sorry_ to me for pretending and a lot of other mundane things."

The conductor was absolutely stone.

Slowly, Kyle knelt down beside Subaru and stroked up and down the trumpeter's pale arm—Seishiro couldn't describe the feeling that welled up within him, something between wanting to vomit, wanting to hurt Kyle more than the fires of hell ever could, wanting to hurt he himself until he felt he was allowed to even speak to Subaru after he'd caused all of this for the trumpeter. "And then," Kyle continued pleasantly, as he took a small cloth-covered bundle from his jacket pocket and held it against the trumpeter's head. "Of course Fai came running in trying to tell me that I shouldn't hurt Subaru and I should just hurt him and then he did that thing that always happens when I touch him—you know, the way he freezes up and then starts giving absolutely amazing heads—"

"Ashura don't you _dare_—" Seishiro heard himself yell.

But Ashura had already torn out the gun and aimed it right at Kyle—the artist's black eyes were like the pits of a grave, dark and endless and filled with death.

Even facing death, all Kyle did was smile and slowly began to unwrap the cloth around whatever it was he was holding to Subaru's head.

It was a gun.

Ashura didn't even falter—his arm was straight and steadily pointed at the doctor.

It was an easily understood threat.

"Ashura," Seishiro looked straight at the artist's inhumanly furious eyes. The conductor's voice was low and deadly and he didn't care if had to hurt Fai and Yuui to get this done and to stop this madness. "If you shoot—I swear—I swear to God, I swear to anything and everything, that I will kill Fai and Yuui. I will _kill you_. You three won't live to see another day and you won't be able to keep those two alive if I don't want them to be." Ashura stared right back, gaze unchanging and frightening as ever. Only Seishiro wasn't one to be frightened. "If Subaru gets hurt, Fai and Yuui disappear," the conductor said in a whisper that was loud and soundless all at once.

Kyle suddenly laughed and Seishiro whipped around. "A few years ago," the doctor mused, "you hurt Subaru because you couldn't bear to have your peers—your Circus—think anything but highly of you and now you're more than willing to kill them just for Boy Blue? I'm rather impressed—I'd be more impressed were it not for the fact that I'm a bit offended that you'd think I'd do anything to hurt Subaru." He smiled brightly. "That's what you're going to do."

Kyle stood up casually and handed his gun to Seishiro. "There you go."

This was getting too disturbing for Seishiro's mind to function properly—he didn't have any motherfucking clue what was going on and he didn't know what the fuck he was supposed to do, meaning he had no clue what he was supposed to tell Ashura what the artist was supposed to do. He just knew that the danger was getting worse and worse by every passing moment they played into Kyle's hands. And the longer they stayed here, the longer Fai and Subaru weren't getting help.

"Oh, it's quite all right," Kyle said, standing up and patting Seishiro's shoulder. "I've got another one right here," he said, revealing another gun in his pocket hand.

Ashura was looking wildly from Yuui's shocked face to Fai's body to Subaru's body to Seishiro's own bewildered expression. "Don't shoot," Seishiro whispered—not sure if he was talking to himself or the artist. "We can't shoot." His heart thudded.

"I didn't give that for you to shoot, Maestro," Kyle said sarcastically, leaning back against the counter once again. "I gave it so you could cool Subaru down, obviously."

When there was only a longer pause, Kyle further said, "I know how much you love fucking into Boy Blue, but since he looks a bit overheated from when he and I had some fun a few minutes ago, I thought that he might want something cooler to fuck him—the barrel of that gun should do the trick, don't you think?"

Most times, when humans heard, felt, touched, realized something that was simply and completely out of the spectrum of what they thought could ever be real, could ever be true, could ever be possible, most times, a human's mind would close down—it would close down because there was only ever so much a human being could handle. In a way, it could even be viewed as a defense mechanism because attempting to comprehend, to wrap his or her mind around something that is simply too much to handle, could be an easy spark for insanity.

And so Seishiro didn't feel himself slid down onto his knees, landing right next to Subaru. He didn't see Ashura and Yuui's eyes gain a surreal sort of expression, one beyond human shock. He couldn't sense much beyond everything around him spinning and shifting, trying to adjust and create a new balance, trying to reach equilibrium given the incomprehensibly huge support that'd just been yanked right out.

"You might want to hurry," Kyle yawned. "I still have a flight to catch and my trigger finger is getting awfully bored—it might slip, you never know." From the corner of his eye, Seishiro saw that Kyle's gun truly had never been aimed at Ashura.

It'd never been aimed at Fai or Yuui or even Seishiro.

It was aimed at Subaru.

Seishiro knew it couldn't have been more than a minute, but there was the longest moment of silence, of stillness, that passed before Kyle spoke up again, saying, "I personally don't care whether Subaru's brains are in a puddle of his own blood and semen by the end of the night considering I'll probably be out of this country by tomorrow, but if you do, I highly suggest you speed up your pace."

The Maestro forced his body to move without his mind—sliding his knees right up against Subaru's arm. He hadn't realized that he'd been shaking until he saw his fingers tremble as they reached out to touch the trumpeter's hair, pushing it back from the pale cheek, streaked with tears and sweat. And to his great surprise, he saw that the trumpeter's eyelids were open—they seemed to have been open this entire time. But that wasn't even half of the shock—that would be the fact that Subaru was smiling.

It was a humorless smile—that much was certain to Seishiro—but it was still a smile, small, soft, hesitant, tired, and afraid. "Your armor needs some polishing," Subaru said in barely a whisper, "and I think your white horse is a little beat up." The smile came again. "But thank you."

Seishiro felt his face revert back into ice and stone. His eyes widened without his consent and he simply wanted to run—run away and never look back. He couldn't even tell if it was truly his mouth and his voice, but he felt himself croak, "Subaru—Subaru—Subaru, I have to—"

"You never have to," Subaru murmured. Seishiro saw that the trumpeter's eyes were wet—whether it was from pain or fear, he wasn't sure. "You know you never have to."

With those words said, the conductor grabbed the back of Subaru's head and crushed their lips together, tongue invading, collecting the taste of blood and semen—Kyle's?—and sweat and tears and _Subaru _because it'd been years and far, far too long and Seishiro would be damned, he'd be fucked and screwed and damned and damned and damned if he let Subaru get hurt again. He'd never let Subaru cry, never let him hurt, never let him be alone, never let him be anything less than happy—

And right now, no matter what, he sure as fucking hell wouldn't let Subaru die.

For this moment, in this moment, it didn't matter if Seishiro had to hurt Subaru—it didn't matter if this coming action was going to make Seishiro the cruelest bastard, unforgivable by any means, despicable enough to be on par with Kyle—none of this mattered as long as Seishiro got Subaru out alive.

And after that, after all of this was taken care of, Seishiro would leave.

He'd leave, and this time, he wouldn't do it half-assed—he wouldn't stick around and drop in on Subaru's life whenever he felt like it again. He wouldn't drop in and try to build things back to where they could never be. This time—this time Seishiro would truly leave. After graduation, he'd be headed for his orchestra and he wouldn't let Subaru join. This time Seishiro would truly disappear.

So for now, all Seishiro could do was lean in and slip his arms around Subaru, all the while whispering, "I do—I do and I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry and it's going to hurt, Subaru. It's going to hurt and I'm so sorry."

Seishiro remembered that when he and Fuuma had gotten their shots when they were younger, their nursemaids had always told them that it'd hurt less if they closed their eyes—if they didn't expect it and it was just plunged in with no notice at all. And he kept this in mind as he willed himself to ignore Subaru beginning to move in his arms—he straddled the backs of Subaru's thighs and held the trumpeter face down against the cold tiles. He pushed the trumpeter's legs apart—

And then he forced the gun's icy barrel through the tight ring of muscle—forced it into Subaru.

Out of the corner of his eye, Seishiro saw Yuui suddenly clamp his hands over his ears and shut his eyes at the cutting cry from Subaru—the half-scream that rang through the air, piercing it like a blade through a baby's heart. Even Ashura visibly shuddered.

Kyle smiled.

The conductor flatted his body against Subaru's bare back and whispered into the trumpeter's ear, "Close your eyes—close your eyes and pretend. It'll be over. It'll be over fast—close your eyes and pretend, okay?" He eased the gun in another inch and he watched Subaru's fists clench against the floor. "I know—I know. Forget it—close your eyes and it'll be over. I promise, Subaru." Another inch and Subaru's voice leaked out again. Seishiro's breathing shook. "Believe me, Subaru—just listen to me. Listen to my voice and keep your eyes closed."

Seishiro finished in the length of the gun and he knew that now it wasn't the pain of being stretched so much as it was the unbelievable fear and realization of the fact that a lethal weapon was inside of you and it was only adding to Subaru's mental state that the feel was cold and metal and dangerous and deadly and _a gun—a fucking gun_. He could hear the trumpeter's breathing mingle unevenly with stifled sobs.

With every _in-out-in-out_ of the barrel, with every shudder and tremble that ran through Subaru's body, Seishiro felt a deeper and deeper stab through the flesh of his heart. His mind was tangled in what was happening right now, but there was a tiny bit of him that had begun to wonder how in fucking hell was he supposed to get through this after it was all over? How were you supposed to clean up such a fucking mess? Pretending that this had never happened would be too much for him to handle, but acknowledging that it had might just about send him to the asylum.

And then—there was Subaru.

After this, Seishiro had no choice but to leave Subaru—that much, the conductor had already decided in stone for himself. There was no other choice, regardless of what either of them wanted. There had just been too much love, too much heartache, too many misunderstandings, too much sadness, anger, hate—too much had happened between them and nothing could ever make it right enough for them to be together. Leaving was the only choice left.

_Except it wasn't_

The voice in his head had appeared as Seishiro knew it would, and whatever attempts he would make to shoo it away would only end up futile. The best he could do was ignore it. He had to ignore how softly and persuasively it was speaking to him—he had to ignore the images it conjured to him of Subaru spending days and nights in tears after Seishiro would leave this final time. It conjured to him images of the sleepless nights Subaru would spend wondering what he'd done wrong to chase Seishiro away once again. Worst of all, images of the wounds in Subaru's heart healing as the trumpeter learned to love someone other than Seishiro—a blurred image, unsure of who this future someone would be, but unbelievable hatred rising at the thought of it nonetheless.

And then—

_But what if you stayed?_

Images of Subaru sleeping beside him in bed, battered from this ordeal with Kyle, but content and surely healing because Seishiro was there. Images of Subaru telling him that the trumpeter forgave him, the trumpeter loved him, the trumpeter had always loved him. Images of finally being able to touch that pale body with worshipping hands instead of hateful ones, being able to make up all those years of hurt. Images of Subaru visiting him after graduation, of Subaru joining his orchestra after the trumpeter's vacation—of them living together—of them together forever.

An image of Seishiro finally being able to tell Subaru that he loved the trumpeter—had always loved him, would always love him.

* * *

"Seishiro?"

Small, feminine hands were gently prying his fingers off of the gun. "Seishiro," the voice murmured, distinctly feminine and too familiar, "Seishiro, you can let go now. We all got your calls—we're here, you can let go now."

For the first time in his life, Seishiro couldn't find any control in his body—he hadn't realized it, and he couldn't feel it even now, but somehow he knew that he was shaking violently from head to toe and that the ridges of the gun were digging into his palms because of how tightly he was holding onto the gun.

"We've got Subaru," another female voice said—slightly higher in pitch, and new hands attempted to pull the gun from his fingers. "Kyle's gone, Seishiro—it's okay. You can let go. Dad's going to take care of Kyle—we won't turn him in and no cops will ask Subaru anything unless you want them to."

Seishiro felt the sense of horror within him grow by the second as he realized that he was seeing faces and lights but he couldn't comprehend any of them—he was hearing voices that he recognized and he knew what they were saying but he couldn't understand anything. He couldn't connect one thing with another and he was _so fucking terrified_.

He could remember—he could remember hearing the rest of Subaru's screams as Kyle had had Seishiro fuck the trumpeter harder and harder and harder with the gun until Seishiro felt blood on his hands and Ashura and Yuui were both yelling and Subaru fell silent and Hokuto and Yuzuriha appeared with guns to Kyle's head and Yuuko and Kusanagi were threatening the doctor and Ashura and Yuui and Fai were taken away and Satsuki took Subaru away and—

A deeper female voice suddenly spoke, authoritatively and controlled, but not without sympathy. "Reassuring him like that isn't going to do much," the voice said softly. "Satsuki finished, so Kusanagi's carrying him in—we can't put him in the hospital even though he needs it more than last time. Apparently, Kyle's known in that hospital so if we take Subaru there, there could be some consistency clashes in the cover story Kusanagi's forming for this." The speaker paused, and then, "There he is. Right here—put the boy here, Kusanagi—maybe this can bring the Maestro back to life."

The two pairs of female hands took Seishiro's arms and began pulling them out, positioning them as if to hold something. And suddenly, a warm, still body was placed in his arms and as intensely as the horror—the spreading, growing, numbing horror of having all of his senses rendered useless by an invisible anesthetic—as intensely as it'd come, it was suddenly lifted—cleared.

He felt his fingers let go of the gun—it clattered to the ground and he was able to finally see the faces surrounding him, all concerned and frightened, but not nearly as frightened as he himself had just been.

There was Yuuko, her fair face paler than ever—she looked genuinely worried for the first time in Seishiro's memory. There was Hokuto, watching Seishiro with intense sadness in her eyes, reflecting the hurt and fear. Yuzuriha and Kusanagi were also there—Seishiro had called them, knowing and hoping at the same time that they would look over the fact that Seishiro had broken every single law in existence, going against everything the father and daughter wanted him to believe in—he'd hoped that they'd come and help him despite all of that and they had.

And then, the conductor looked down in his arms and for a moment—for an awful, terrible, horrible moment—he felt his heart skip a beat as he took into account the closed eyelids, the naked body wrapped in a sheet, only to realize in the following glorious, miraculous, beautiful moment that the trumpeter he held in his arms was only sleeping—most likely knocked unconscious by something Satsuki gave him.

But the relief was quickly cut away when he noticed the numerous pads and bandages underneath the sheet, covering the dozens of bruises and cuts marring Subaru's white body. He also noticed that the trumpeter's blood was drying on his hands and fingernails and the reddish brown was imprinted where Seishiro was holding onto Subaru as his arms cradled him.

"Can I trust you to make it back to your dorm without breaking down?" Yuuko asked softly. "Satsuki's already sent up some more pills and a change of bandages in case you'll need it throughout the night. I know this is already obvious, but I thought that you'd want to be the one that helps him through tonight—Satsuki thinks there's going to be nightmares."

When Seishiro thought that if he opened his mouth, a voice might actually come out, he said the thing furthest from his mind, "Fai?"

"He'll be fine," Hokuto said with a gentle smile. "So stop pretending you care about that when we all know you don't give a shit right now, and go take Subaru upstairs. Satsuki already rinsed him off, so just put him to bed, all right?"

"Oh," Kusanagi spoke suddenly, as Seishiro stood up. "Satsuki had to leave fast, but she said not to panic if Subaru throws up a couple of times—and try to get him to sleep on his stomach or his side." He grabbed hold of the Maestro's shoulder with a large hand and guided him to the doorway.

Seishiro knew, Maestro or no, he should be thanking all of them on his knees repeatedly for at least twelve hours continuously, but all he could do right now was concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and figuring out where the hell his dorm was and how he was supposed to get there because it didn't matter how well he knew the campus, right now, he wanted nothing more than to die.

He wanted to die over and over and over again as he made his way through the buildings, holding Subaru tightly to his body, and wondering how the fucking hell he was supposed to tell Subaru what he should've told the trumpeter years ago.


	40. The Duke's Thoughts: Smile Boy

**A/N: **I don't think any of you really want an Unveiled with nothing but Mioru and Senryuu in it and neither do I because Fai and Yuui still have some important plotlines to be tied up and because I still love everyone else (T_T) I really do, it's just that the honeymoon phase is still going really strongly, so instead of ruining Unveiled over my stupid character-crush, I'll take it out by doing some oneshots instead. Plus, this is good for character development. Consider these Unveiled outtakes-the parts of their developing relationship that we should all see (since I hate to death the whole we-meet-and-we-flirt-for-two-chapters-then-we-are-totally-in-love-forever-cough-Twilight-cough) but I can't stick completely in Unveiled.

* * *

Smile Boy

Senryuu has never been good with smiles.

He's never been good with expressions in general. Maybe it's because his parents have, since he can ever remember, hammered into him the fact that he was born into life as a socialite and this life he'll live is one that will always be watched constantly—that news reporters and paparazzi and his peers won't stop at what he says, but they'll go so far as to assume from the kinds of faces, expressions, gazes that he makes, regardless of what he truly means by his expressions.

Besides, his parents never wanted to see him smile anyhow—he always remembers seeing other parents asking their children to smile for the camera. He can remember seeing the Sumeragi parents asking Subaru to try and please get his brother to look happy for once. He can remember seeing Seishiro telling Fuuma to knock the grin off of his face before the Maestro knocked his entire face off for good. He can remember watching Watanuki's parents laugh as their son explodes in frustration as he tries to get Doumeki to just look like he cares for once during the interview.

But no one really has ever cared what kind of expression Senryuu wears, or whether he puts his feelings on his face, so it never really mattered anyway.

However, when Fai comes along, or rather, when Senryuu comes along to Fai, he realizes that maybe he's been playing this game a bit wrong. Even someone as expressionless as Senryuu was able to tell that Fai's smiles are fake smiles—they didn't reach his eyes, they were as cold and perfect as an ice sculpture. But isn't that how Fai was back then? An ice sculpture—beautiful and frigid and unfeeling, or perhaps, unable to feel.

"You just have to smile," Fai says to him, as they lay naked side-by-side, their breathing evening and their bodies cooling. "It's not something you feel because you don't have to mean it—you just do it."

Senryuu tries. He tries to smile and not mean it, and it works. Fai smiles his own deceiving smile back, but Senryuu can feel the difference. He can feel that Fai smiles the fake ones as easily as the real ones because Senryuu thinks that maybe Fai hasn't smiled a real smile in so long that the musician has forgotten what it feels like. As for Senryuu, he hasn't smiled any type of smile in too long to remember, so any kind of smile feels stiff to him. It's stiff and unnatural and when he catches himself in the mirror, he erases it from his face because it's awkward and weird and again, it doesn't really matter what expression he wears anyway.

Expressions are important because they let people know how you feel—what you feel, how intensely you feel it, how you feel about them, how you feel about something. But they're only important if there are people that want to know that about you—if no one cares how you feel, then there's no reason to have any type of expression. And thus, Senryuu knows that other than the bare minimum of having to face Fuuka and Kurogane during practice, there isn't really a need for him to have expressions.

Maybe that's one of the reasons he fell in love with Mioru.

Mioru is a whirlwind of expressions.

Mioru is a chaotic, wild, uncontrollable whirlwind of expressions, of emotions, of feelings, of faces, of moods. Every time Senryuu sees him run into Kurogane's arms, there will always be a different grin on his face—sometimes seductive, sometimes flirtatious, sometimes lustful, sometimes amused, sometimes excited. Every time Senryuu sees him storm towards Kurogane, there will always be a different scowl, a different glare, a different glower on his face—sometimes disappointed, sometimes angry, sometimes irritated, sometimes sad, sometimes confused.

And it doesn't just stop at his facial expressions. Mioru embraces his emotions, puts them into his body, he shows what he feels by the way he walks, the spring or lag in his step, the way he either jumps into Kurogane's arms or reluctantly slides into Kurogane's touch. It's in his voice—the way he yells at Kurogane with eagerness, with enthusiasm; the way he screams at Kurogane, with accusation, with fury.

Senryuu wonders how amazing it must feel to be the center of all of those beautiful, lovely, crazy whirlwind of emotions. He wonders and wishes it isn't for Kurogane.

* * *

He wondered.

* * *

He's still wondering, but now he thinks that at least he doesn't have to be so far away from the stem of those emotions and expressions. Now, he can see them face-to-face, up close. Now, he thinks he's able to see the expressions that up until now, only Kurogane has ever seen. He's been able to see tears on Mioru's face when he climaxes. He's been able to see Mioru's face when he's deep in thought—so deep that he doesn't move until Senryuu kisses him. He's been able to see Mioru laughing.

He's been able to see so much in the little time he's had the soccer player to himself. So much in so little because even after Mioru's hurt and been hurt, he still never hides what he feels—and Senryuu thinks that maybe Mioru doesn't like that about himself, he has a suspicion that Mioru wishes he could suppress everything, hide everything, like Fai and Yuui can. But the assistant wishes he could find it in him to tell Mioru that even though Fai and Yuui have been thawed and warmed, they were once ice sculptures—perfect and frigid with equally perfect and frigid expressions.

Senryuu never wants Mioru to become like that.

There's one expression Mioru has that Senryuu holds above all the others. It's just a simple expression—a sort of hybrid between a cheeky smile and a shy grin and it didn't come out often at first, and it still doesn't come out that much more often now, but it appears occasionally and Senryuu wishes he knew how to make it come out whenever he wanted it to. There is no way for the assistant to describe what this one expression made him feel. It always appeared on Mioru spontaneously—something Senryuu says or something he does makes it come out, but Senryuu is hard pressed to figure out why these particular actions or words make this expression come out. The actions and words are always random and different every time.

But right now Mioru is wearing this half-smile, half-grin right now and Senryuu can't stop staring.

It isn't one of those expressions that sidle on from the eyes down, or from the mouth up—it sparks right on the soccer player's face, bright and full of energy. His teeth will flash between his full lips, pushing his cheekbones up, and his huge dark eyes to form perfect crescent moons. Sometimes there'll be an accompanying laugh, and other times he'll just wrinkle his nose and continue to wear that brilliant expression.

And Senryuu is as baffled as he is elated because he has no idea why a simple, half-second kiss on the lips made Mioru whip out this expression. He even thinks about the timing—but the timing was noting special either; they are sitting on Senryuu's bed and he kissed Mioru as the soccer player was reading a text from one of his teammates.

But whatever it is, Senryuu hopes that Mioru will never stop—he hopes that he'll never figure out what it is exactly that makes each of Mioru's vastly different expressions comes out. He just hopes that it'll go on forever, because now, whenever he watches Mioru grin so boldly, so happily, pure and simple joy—Senryuu finds himself smiling right along.


	41. S and the Maestro: Love Story

**A/N: **I think I started this sometime in the middle of August and wrote a bit every now and then because I knew that Seishiro and Subaru's arc was ending soon and I just felt like summing it all up in the most-ridiculously-gianormous-8,000-word-chapter-I've-ever-written, and this will probably give you all a headache so I urge you not to read this at ten til midnight with a Chemistry test riding for the next day that you haven't really studied for (which is why the ending doesn't satisfy me, by the way T_T, but I couldn't let this gather dust on my thumb drive any longer). The reason I don't go into the part where Subaru and Seishiro make up (you'll understand once you read through this) is because that'll be in the actual chapters itself so I didn't want to spoil/be redundant. And just for those who'll wonder, the epilogue (it'll make more sense later when you read ~_~) takes place RIGHT before they leave for Spain (as in, they were in Spain for the summer to perform at the beginning of Unveiled. I did it this way because I thought, "Hey. Ending of Subaru and Seishiro's love story, beginning of Mioru and Senryuu's. Heh heh." -_-)

This would never have been written without Love Story by Rain, which to me, is Seishiro's POV of everything he's been through with Subaru in song down to a T. So give that a listen.

Anyway, enjoy the ridiculous length.

* * *

Love Story

It's the first chapter.

* * *

There are cherry blossoms being carried by the wind, swirling around in perfect pink clouds, and landing softly on the grass like a cinematographer's wet dream. The air smells sweet with their scent and spring is so obviously in the air that it's almost sickening. The sun is pretty this day and its pretty rays are reaching down towards the courtyard of a school, ancient and stone in its structure. But I can't feel any of those rays on me, even as I stand in perfect aim of them, watching this building from a distance.

A ways beside me is a young man. There is a look in his eyes that tells how experienced and mature he thinks himself, and perhaps sixteen is no number to laugh at but to me he looks so very young. I hesitate to even call him a young man. I feel like terming him a boy would be more appropriate. His eyes carry brightness, eager and wicked and flirtatious as he waits, standing beside me in this courtyard.

He wears a uniform, simple and dark—a clean suit with his jacket slung over one shoulder because of the spring warmth, and his tie loosened. His hair is mussed because of the wind, and like his uniform, it is dark and simple, falling casually over his forehead and towards his eyes, sweeping to the side just slightly. His eyes are also dark in color, but light in emotion.

The stone doors to the school abruptly open and students begin to pour out. The taller, older, ones are walking calmly, chatting and laughing and slowly loosening their ties, untucking their shirts, rolling their skirts. The smaller, younger ones come running out, faces grinning and eager to wrinkle their pressed uniforms by playing in the spring weather.

I watch and see the young man's eyes search the crowd swiftly, one hand pocketed while the other keeps his folded suit jacket from falling off his shoulder. I know immediately when he finds his target because his eyes become twice as bright and his hand comes out of his pocket and his stance livens up. All this is unconscious for him—he doesn't know how much just the way he stands changes when he sees the person he's looking for.

They come in pairs—the two blonds and the two black-haired boys. One black-haired boy separates from his friends—the other three carry different expressions, with the blonds looking amused and the black-haired twin disgruntled and irritated as they continue to walk away without his brother.

The young man immediately opens his arms and the black-haired, emerald-eyed boy jogs into them, letting the young man hold him close.

"Did you come here straight from Fuki?" the boy says incredulously, leaning back out of the embrace to look up at the dark eyes.

But the young man doesn't want to let the boy out too far; his arms are solid, holding the boy in so their legs are against each other. "What else do I have to do? You didn't expect me to go to shitty SAT prep, did you?" The young man's nose wrinkles. "I thought you knew me better than that, Subaru."

The tips of Subaru's ears redden and the young man grins. I grin along with him. "You skipped SAT prep to wait an hour for me?"

The young man snorts, but there is still a smile on his face—that smile that comes as easy as breathing, the smile that someone wears when they feel as if they can conquer the world even though they have something far greater. "You don't have to sound flattered—anyone who's sane would rather do nothing for sixty minutes than going to SAT prep."

Now, Subaru's ears are completely red. "Well—yeah—I mean—I didn't mean that—"

The boy falls silent as the young man covers his lips. The emerald eyes close slowly and the young man holds him even closer and tighter as they kiss, oblivious to everyone around them.

When the young man releases Subaru, his cheeks are tinged pink and his ears look as if they've been stained with strawberry juice. His small hands are holding on to the young man's shoulders, and the jacket has fallen forgotten onto the grass. "You know," Subaru says faintly amused and pleased. "You always kiss me whenever I'm trying to say something important—like how you should go to SAT practice and not wait for me."

The young man kisses Subaru's cheek. "Why not?"

"Because it's wasting time—you could've gone to prep and then left early instead of just waiting an hour doing nothing." Subaru wiggles out of the embrace and bends down to pick up the jacket. He pats the grass out of it and holds it out for its owner.

The young man stares for a minute, his expression considering. And then he takes the jacket, and Subaru along with it, reeling the boy back into his arms and kissing him on the mouth again. It's a longer kiss, deeper. I see their tongues flashing and their breaths rising in speed and pitch—Subaru's body arches into the young man's and the jacket is once again fallen and forgotten.

By the end of it, Subaru is panting and his eyes are half-lidded—he leans into the young man and his eyebrows furrow a little. "See? You did it again. I'm starting to think you _only_ kiss me to stop me from saying things that matter."

"Actually," the young man closes his eyes up into an easy smile. "I kiss you to stop you from sayings that _don't_ matter."

"How is you wasting time not important?"

"Well, first of all," the young man buries his fingers in Subaru's hair, "that part not only didn't matter, but it wasn't even true. I didn't waste a single minute—I spent it all deep in thought."

Subaru doesn't look convinced. "About what?"

"I was trying to think of reasons to get you to sleep over tonight."

Subaru sighs, but I can tell it's only because he's trying to keep from smiling. "I have homework, it's a school night, and last time I slept over on a school night, we did it until two."

"We started late," the young man replies.

"We started at like five-thirty."

"Then you ate dinner and took a shower and did homework, so that killed like three hours."

"Seishiro," Subaru said significantly, wriggling out of the hold once again and picking up the falling jacket. But this time, he just holds it to himself. "Not tonight."

The young man folds his arms and there is a pout in his dark eyes and almost in his voice. "You always say no."

I want to tell the young man that he should just let Subaru go. I want to tell this sixteen-year-old Seishiro that as ridiculous as it sounds, he has no idea how precious it is to be able to have Subaru saying no. He has no idea what it's like to only ever have this emerald-eyed, smiling boy only ever say yes—only ever throwing himself at your feet, ready to do anything, ready to let you fuck him for hours, days, as long as you didn't leave him, as long as you'd look at him for even a second.

But he can't hear me.

He can't see me either.

Subaru's expression falls. "I'm sorry," he says, a bit of pleading edging into his tone as he reaches out a hand and threads his fingers through Seishiro's. "I'll stay over this entire weekend, I promise."

Seishiro swings their entwined hands and murmurs, "But I miss you."

"You see me every day," Subaru laughs softly.

"I'm not allowed to miss you?" The young man continues defiantly. "Especially when I'm alone at night, listening to sad music and Fuuma bouncing off the walls like an imbecile, jacking off to the t-shirt you left on Friday—"

"It's at _your_ house?" Subaru asks, surprised.

"You're not getting it back," Seishiro says plainly.

Subaru looks doubtful. "I'm not sure I even _want_ it back."

"I did launder it." Seishiro sounds miffed.

Subaru laughs, and when he calms down, there is something in his eyes as he looks up at Seishiro. "Well, since you went through all that painstaking trouble, I guess it'd be all right if I slept over. I'll just call home and make sure Kamui doesn't have aneurysms again like last time."

"That's a shame," Seishiro says coolly, even though I find myself almost rolling my eyes because the happiness in his voice is so evidently repressed that it's almost humiliating. "That was funny—the eye-twitching was particularly entertaining, in my opinion."

Subaru sighs, smiling. "I'm glad you thought so."

* * *

The pages are turning. They stop at chapter three.

* * *

The seasons have changed. Rather than cherry blossoms, snow is swirling in the wind, collecting in the corners of windowpanes and rooftops. The sky is pitch black, dotted with white snowflakes falling softly towards the earth and landing on the thick blanket that is already covering the houses—the estates and their mansions. There is light coming from all of these windows, and I am watching the snow drift down from within one of these windows, but I decide to turn away and watch the figures on the bed of the room I stand in.

They are lying down, naked bodies covered by the sheets, only inches between them. The color of the tops of their heads contrast—black and a cloudy, dull sort of blond. It's Seishiro, older but not much, sprawled on his back, head pillowed in his arms, staring up at the ceiling lazily. Beside him on the bed is a young man with golden eyes and fair hair. The young man sits up first, reaching to the nightstand on his side of the bed and taking the pair of glasses on it, pushing them onto his face.

"Already?" Seishiro asks through a yawn. "This _is_ your house and it's not like it's a school night or anything."

The young bespectacled man gets off the bed and starts picking up his clothes from the floor. "Go home, Seishiro. I'm sure Subaru's been waiting up for you."

Seishiro's face belies nothing at these words, but I can see in his eyes and I can feel from him that they bother him more than he will ever let himself or anyone else know. And the tiny part of him that does let in on it convinces him that he's only bothered because he doesn't want anyone waiting for him and having someone do so is just a hindrance.

I want to hit him.

I want to tell him that if he only knew what it feels like to have Subaru so afraid of you, so worried about what you want, so concerned about how you want it that he thinks he shouldn't come to your house unless you ask him, too—that he actually _asks_ you if you'll let him wait for you because that's just how far you've pushed him. I want to tell him that he shouldn't even fucking be in this house, in Yukito Tsukishiro's bed. Not only is he keeping Yukito from realizing who _he_ should be with, but he's convincing himself that he's still the Maestro, Subaru or no.

Only because he's never had the no.

Not yet.

But I still want to warn him—I want, with everything I have, for him to be able to see me and hear me so I can tell him about what it feels like to finally figure out that there is no one that even compares to Subaru. That quality is a thousand times more important than quantity—that it doesn't matter how beautiful and seductive and wanted all these young men and women are, it doesn't matter that you could have any of them whenever, whenever, and however you wanted, none of it matters because they aren't Subaru.

I know, however, that even if he could hear and see me, and I am able to tell him all of this, he wouldn't listen to me anyway.

So I remain still until Seishiro has put on his clothes and slipped out the door.

I follow him.

I follow him out the door, down the stairs, to the front door, down the pathway and into his car. I slip quietly into the backseat so I can watch his expression on the rearview mirror. The darkness swathes the sides of his face, but the street and car lights illuminate his eyes and features. The emotion on them is deep in thought and almost torn. I know that he is replaying every single touch, every caress and sigh and kiss that he gave to Yukito and that Yukito gave back to him.

I know he is comparing them with the ones he gave and received from Subaru.

I also know that after only short seconds, he is concluding, confused and irritated, that they don't compare at all. That the pleasure derived from Yukito was just pleasure and for some reason, Seishiro isn't satisfied. The more he tries to think about how Yukito was just as good if not better, the more he thinks about the touches and caresses and sighs and kisses from Subaru, the more aroused he gets.

He shifts in his seat and I know that he's hard.

The cloth of his coat pocket suddenly shakes and there is a dull vibrating ring that sounds in the silence of the car. He digs his hand into the pocket and pulls out a phone, glowing in the darkness—he touches a button and puts it to his ear. "I'm not in the mood for this, Yuuko."

In the dead quiet of the car, the female voice can be heard purring from the cell phone. "Why? You're halfway to becoming a Sacred—shouldn't you be happy? You only have to break Boy Blue's heart five more times."

"Fuck off," Seishiro says cheerily.

There is an amused sigh from the other line. "Why? It's not like you don't enjoy it, right? I mean, you were already cheating on him since the day you started dating—if you can even call it that. It's more like…fuckhole on call, isn't it?" The voice is laughing now. "A few levels down from fuck buddy, maybe half a level above slave. You certainly treat Ashura and Yukito better than you treat Subaru, and those two are supposed to be the ones you keep on the side—as though Boy Blue doesn't know about them."

"If he knows about them and stays with me anyway then it's not my fault nor is it my concern," Seishiro says casually—or at least, he's trying to be casual. But I know that something in his chest is shivering, trembling, shaking from guilt that he refuses to acknowledge because he thinks that there is nothing for him to be guilty about. "It shouldn't be any of my business whether he wants to value his dignity or not."

There is no reply from the other line for a moment. Then, "It's not any of your business that he doesn't care if no one respects him as long as he can stay with you?"

Seishiro stares ahead at the snowy road, silent.

"Do _you_ respect him?" the female voice asks.

He still remains silent, driving wordlessly with one hand—a dangerous choice on a dark, snowing night.

And then he answers. He says, "No," simply and emptily.

I want to tell him that he's lying, and the lie he just told to this woman and to himself made him worthy of swerving off the icy road and into a ditch where his frozen body will be found the next morning. But because fortune loves him, he just continues to drive easily and safely. His face shows absolute serenity, but I know that there are hurricanes warring inside of him. The storm refuses to calm because he is trying to convince himself that he has no respect whatsoever for anyone who degrades himself or herself like Subaru does.

The female voice sounds resigned when it responds. "If you say so, Maestro. I'll see you next week. Make sure you show up sober and on time or I'm not selling you pot for a month. Imagine Yuuko Ichihara having to stall suits just for her protégée's sake—it makes me cringe just remembering."

"I know, I got it," Seishiro says back quietly. "Bye." He hangs up and tucks the phone back into his pocket, still determined to will away his erection. He is sure that it should be gone by now considering that his mind has been left in turmoil once again from a phone call with one of the most famous women in the socialite world, but it isn't. If anything, his length is growing by the minute because during the phone call, he was forced to call up Subaru's face again.

He doesn't even feel like having sex right now.

And it's true this time. I know he doesn't want to have sex. That isn't the kind of aroused he is at this moment. I lean forward slightly to peer at his expression—it's desperate and confused and angry and reluctant to showcase anything other than composure even when he's alone in this dark car.

Seishiro arrives at his house, quietly parking outside the garage and walking up to his front door. I follow him. He enters, locks the door behind himself, and treads up the stairs in near pitch-black darkness. There is only the light filtering in through the windows, caused by the shining streetlights outside. His parents are in Hong Kong on a business trip and eighth-grader Fuuma is most likely fast asleep or still out partying.

He opens the door to his bedroom and it is dark except for his desk light. Subaru is sitting there, arms pillowing his head as he is slumped over onto the table over an open SAT book and an empty cup of what smells like tea is there beside it. Seishiro quietly takes off his coat and slings it around his bedpost. For a moment that feels like forever, he simply stands there and watches the sleeping boy. Then he carefully slips one arm under Subaru's knees and the other around his waist and makes the short transition lift from the chair to Seishiro's bed.

After he places Subaru gently on his bed, Seishiro remains hovering above him, holding himself at arms' length over the bed. He only has to wait seconds until Subaru stirs, eyelashes fluttering and emerald eyes clouded with sleep. Seishiro doesn't know why, but a smile immediately graces itself onto his face and he says, "You waited up for me?"

Subaru returns the smile with a sleepy, and yet somehow, breathtaking one of his own. "You don't have to sound flattered—anyone would rather wait than do SAT prep. I was only able to stomach so much of AB being parallel to CD." One of his hands reaches up and cups Seishiro's cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "You shouldn't have been out in the snow—black ice."

"Life loves the Maestro, remember?" Seishiro says playfully. "My car was doing triple axels. I didn't even have my foot on the pedal."

Subaru smiles again, even more breathtakingly, and his hand falls away from Seishiro's face. "Really?" He laughs a little. "Cool."

Seishiro drops himself beside Subaru onto the bed, causing the mattress to bounce slightly from the sudden weight gain. He props himself up on one elbow and I sit on the edge of the bedpost, watching them. When he gets closer, he can smell mint and sugar from Subaru's breath, so he inquires, "Did you make tea?"

Subaru shakes his head. "Fuuma got back and I think he drank too much at the party he was at so he made some tea to make himself feel better and gave me the extra that was left."

At that, Seishiro has to laugh. "He probably just drank beer. He always gets sick when he drinks something that's not French. Maybe because he's in fucking eighth grade and doesn't know how to get drunk right." He rolls slightly and ducks his head forward to kiss Subaru briefly. "I suppose he's snoring away now?"

"No, he brought a girl home," Subaru says, pointing at the wall that separated the two brothers' rooms. "But I think she was pretty smashed, too, so whatever they did didn't last for very long. Plus, she was about his age, Seishiro."

He snorts. "I could last the entire night since sixth grade." He glances at Subaru. "And I know that I remember spending like twenty minutes trying to get you to come _once_ when you were in eighth grade."

Subaru blinks and his eyebrows furrow a little. "That's because you made me do it during exam week when I hadn't slept for about two days. You even threatened to give me Viagra."

Seishiro buries his face in Subaru's stomach and laughs.

I'm seeing it for the first time because Seishiro's face is covered whenever this happens, but when he's laughing into Subaru's body like that, there is a smile that comes across Subaru's face and it's bright enough to power a third world country for a years. There is nothing I know that is purer than this smile at this moment, simply happy from being able to hear the sound of laughter from the person he loves, happy from being able to be so close to him that he can feel the laughter trembling into his own body.

I wish Seishiro would've looked up so he could've seen it at that time.

Not that it would've changed anything.

Once he's calmed down and the laughter has stopped, his face loses the smile and he kisses Subaru again—deeper this time, and with more intent. He presses his body right down against Subaru's, making sure that the trumpeter can feel the bulge in his pants, hands riding up into his shirt and letting him know what Seishiro wants. Between uneven breaths as their mouths continue to lock and their tongues continue to twist, Subaru says, "Seishiro—not—I can't—sorry—tomorrow—"

Seishiro pulls away and sighs. "Why?"

Even in the darkness, I can see Subaru's eyes filled with apology and remorse for something he shouldn't even be sorry for. "I have SAT prep tomorrow morning and we're taking a practice test. I really need to see if my score improves and I can't be late. It's early—I'm sorry. I really am."

Seishiro simply looks back at him, not speaking.

"As soon as I get back," Subaru pleads. "I swear—Seishiro, I'm so sorry."

I wish I am able to thwack Seishiro upside the head and make him realize how ridiculous it is that Subaru is apologizing for not being able to put one night of sex above something he has worked for all his life. But even if I try, all that will happen is my hand passing through his head like a ghost's.

Seishiro still says nothing. He merely slips his legs beneath the covers lies down on his back and closes his eyes.

Again, this is another time that I have never seen because Seishiro has his eyes closed. He can't see Subaru's expression full of frustration, almost angry, but ridiculously, not a bit of it is directed at Seishiro—all of it is aimed at himself. He wrings his fingers together for a few minutes, gripping tighter and tighter until his hands ball into fists, and then he starts to move.

He pushes the covers off of Seishiro and straddles his knees, leaning forward onto his elbows. Subaru undoes Seishiro's pants and the Maestro's eyes slide open slightly, watching as Subaru reaches into Seishiro's boxers, pulls out the conductor's erection before it disappears into the trumpeter's mouth.

I no longer want to watch. I don't want to see the smug, satisfied expression on Seishiro's face nor do I want to see Subaru trying so hard to overcome his exhaustion and nervousness for the SAT practice test to focus on someone who doesn't even deserve a quarter of him.

* * *

It's fall now and the sixth chapter.

* * *

The leaves are red and orange and brown and yellow and they blow around in the autumn gust, catching on branches and landing in clumps on the grass. There is the scent of cold and winter to come in the air and the feel of students' thoughts and teachers' lessons. The color of the sky is grayish and fading, cloudy and somewhat stifling as there are still remnants of humid August floating amidst.

I stand facing Akamizu's dormitory for students in the music department. My goal is one of the upper floor windows. I easily walk up the side of the building, horizontal, and pass through the solid glass and the fabric of the closed curtains. When I am inside, I pause and take a seat right at the windowsill, watching the scene play out.

It's the living room and next to me, next to this window that I sit upon, stands Subaru, naked and stiller than a statue. He is looking straight ahead, his expression ripped apart and devastated and almost disbelieving, but not shocked in the least. His eyes are on Seishiro who is standing at the door, all the way across the room, mouth-to-mouth with a young man with pale skin and dark hair that swept his shoulders.

"It doesn't bother you, right?" Seishiro asks innocently, with almost feigned worry, his hand still on the side of the young man's throat. "Ashura's not _cheating_ on Fai or anything."

I don't know for sure, but I have a feeling that Fai doesn't even cross a square centimeter of Subaru's mind. I have a feeling that Ashura's nowhere near his mind either. Because all I see right now is Subaru's emerald eyes shattering into pieces as they stare at the face they've come to know and love but they don't find a single drop of care staring back at them.

After a moment, Subaru replies with an impossible expression, "Of course." A small, forced smile slides wearily onto his face. "I know that."

Without another word, Seishiro and Ashura file quietly past Subaru into the bedroom and the door closes and locks with two soft clicks.

Subaru's head bows and his bangs cover the expression in his eyes, but it is still clear to view his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he takes up the clothes scattered at his feet and slowly dresses himself. Once he is done, he leaves the dorm, winding his scarf around his neck, closing the door behind himself.

One of the things that make a story a story is that there is more than one side. A situation viewed by one character's eyes might be entirely different when it is viewed through another character's eyes. And so, before the door closes, I slip out along with Subaru and follow him out of the building. He walks through the green until the parking lot is reached and quickly unlocks his car and sits at the steering wheel.

For a moment, he just leans his forehead against his knuckles and closes his eyes. It almost looks as if he's asleep. I sit beside him in the passenger's seat, watching his stillness and wondering what will happen if I try to touch him. I don't know what's going to happen next because this part isn't my story—all I know from here on is that Seishiro, back in his dorm, regardless of how hard he's trying to bury himself in Ashura's sighs and Ashura's touch and Ashura's tongue and thighs and body, all he thinks about, all he can see on the back of his closed eyelids is the expression on Subaru's face.

I watch Subaru for another long moment and then he finally lifts his head and even though there are no tears falling down his face, his eyes are covered with a wet film, and he is blinking profusely, shoulders trembling. But his expression is a smile. Not a happy smile, but not an unhappy smile either. I'm not even sure if his smile is sad. His smile is unexplainable and indescribable—it is full of too many emotions to count, of resignation and devastation, of betrayal and expectation, of hurt and confusion, of pain and heartbreak.

And then come the words that crumble my decision not to touch him.

In the softest whisper, spoken only to himself, he says, "Why _should_ he love me?"

I know he can't feel me. I know that I might even just pass through him. I know that it's useless to do this now when the mistake, the grievous error, the stupid, stupid, fucking mistake has already been made. But I can't find it in myself to care. I can't stop myself and I don't want to.

I touch him. I stroke his hair and wrap my arms around his head and I wish I could talk to him. I wish he could hear me. I wish he could see me, even though it won't make sense to him, I wish he could see me so he doesn't have to be alone in this fucking car. I wish he knew. I wish he'd known at this time that Seishiro loves him—that Seishiro is thinking about him while he touches Ashura and tries to forget about him.

But even more than that, I wish that Seishiro had known that he should be sitting where I'm sitting—that Subaru should be where Ashura is. I wish that Seishiro had known that he's making the biggest fucking mistake of his life. I wish that Seishiro hadn't been so worried about being the Maestro and having a fucking good time in college and fucking realized that there was nothing better than Subaru—all of those fucks during college that Seishiro had convinced himself were going to be the best times of his life were all nothing, and he never wanted to believe it.

He never wanted to believe that he always thought of Subaru, no matter who's face he was looking down or up at.

I never wanted to believe it because, as I hold Subaru in my invisible arms, I never thought that it would hurt this fucking much for both of us.

* * *

It's the tenth chapter and it's summer.

* * *

I am standing in front of the house again. Only instead of being covered in darkness and ice, it is covered with sunlight and smoldering in heat. If I turn towards the streets, towards the few cars that are passing by, obscured by the trees that edge the road, there are heat waves that surround them as they drive. The summer is unbearable and I swiftly bring myself up to the second story window, swinging with my palms on the outside window ledge.

The window is closed, but I easily move through the glass, and steady my feet on the floor, looking at the scene before me.

Subaru is alone, on the floor, lying lifeless, blood smeared down the front of his naked body. It wells up from the slanted gash that extends from one shoulder across his torso to his waist. He lies spread-eagle, arms stretched like an angel, eyes wide awake and empty. Around him, the room is in ruins. The sheets of the bed are askew, pulled this way and that. There are books that have fallen of the shelves and desk, while pillows and clothes litter the floor.

This is the aftermath of the first time I hurt him.

The first time of many, each time as painful as the others, as violent and degrading and angry and confused.

Was this how Fai looked? Does Subaru feel the same things Fai felt the first time Kyle hurt him like this? The first time Kyle raped him?

Is that what I did to Subaru?

Did I rape him?

I know that I'd had to convince myself more than once that what I'd done to Subaru wasn't rape. I'd convinced myself on the fragile logic that if Subaru hadn't fought back, hadn't resisted, then it couldn't be considered rape. I'd told myself that I wasn't becoming Kyle—I was _nothing_ like Kyle.

Except I was.

I look at the door of the bedroom and I wonder where Seishiro is. I wonder why he isn't coming in and begging on his knees for Subaru's apology. I wonder why he isn't pouring out the same amount of blood he has bled out of Subaru—the same amount of blood he's going to bleed out of Subaru all the times to come. I wonder because I know. I wonder because I know exactly why he isn't doing all the things that he should.

I know that right now Seishiro is in the shower, trying to get Subaru's scent off of him, to get Subaru's blood off of his dick. I know that right now Seishiro is wondering what the hell he's just done. Right now, Seishiro is trying his fucking hardest to forget the expressions that flashed through Subaru's face—the expressions of utter confusion, of pain, of hurt, of ultimate betrayal, expressions of confusion at what he's done wrong to make Seishiro do this to him.

I kneel beside the battered body, waiting for movement. It comes slow, but after moments, Subaru heavily brings himself up, leaning on his thin arms. He isn't crying, but anyone with a heart would rather see tears than the expression the trumpeter is wearing. Until one witnesses it firsthand, one would never believe so many emotions can be on a face at once—shock, defeat, betrayal, confusion, hurt, disappointment, sorrow, regret, disbelief.

Suddenly, there is a click, the door opens, and Seishiro walks in. He closes the door behind him and casually begins to remake his bed. Once he finishes, he simply swings his legs off the floor and slides himself in a comfortable position against his pillows, hands behind his head. Never did he even glance at Subaru.

And all Subaru did was stare—all he could do was stare, with greater disbelief and betrayal than ever before. In his eyes, I can see that he thinks because of this, because Seishiro has seemed to master this complete ignorance after what just happened, he thinks that this is reality. Subaru thinks that this is real and that Seishiro truly can't love him. Seishiro truly doesn't love him and that everything, all of those years, all of that happiness—none of it will ever return and Subaru wonders if any of it was even ever real.

But I know better.

I know that right now, it is taking everything Seishiro has to not focus his gaze on Subaru. And it is tearing everything Seishiro has as he restrains himself from begging and wrapping his arms around Subaru, from scooping the trumpeter into his arms and rushing to the hospital, from telling Subaru to hurt him back—to scream at him, to leave him, anything, because Seishiro deserved every bit of pain and more.

I've never wished so much that Subaru could feel me—that I wouldn't just go through him like a ghost. I've never wished so much that I could do right now what I hadn't done back then. I've never before wished this much that my younger self can see and hear me—that my younger self would be able to have me tell him that this is the biggest mistake of his life. That there will be nothing in his life that isn't affected by Subaru because Subaru is his life, and by trying to rid himself of Subaru, he's trying to rid himself of life.

This moment—this is the moment that will kill Seishiro.

For the next year, for the next 365 days, Seishiro will be dead. He'll walk and talk and fuck and rape, but he won't be alive.

It's the thirteenth chapter and it's winter again.

There is snow swirling in the air—the scenery thick with white, thick with the sound and scents of the holidays. The grounds are covered with students departing with each other into Town cars, suitcases in tow, preparing to head home for winter vacation. The cafes all over campus are empty, only perhaps one or two students finishing up a term paper or bidding their lovers temporary farewell for the holiday's few short weeks.

Across the road of colleges is Hexagon, not at all exempt from the white blanket of snow. But the club, too, is mostly empty even at this usually bustling evening hour—just when the sun sets. I push the doors open and even though it is not nearly as crowded as it normally is, there are people dancing, some drinking, some flirting, some talking. I make my way through the crowds and sit myself on the bar—I sit myself on a seat just two away from Seishiro and Subaru.

Subaru has just arrived—that much I can tell from his windswept hair and winter-flushed cheeks.

He sits down beside Seishiro and accepts the drink that the conductor pushes toward him. To a bystander, the Maestro's eyes seem to simply watch the trumpeter sip silently at the alcohol, but I know that he's watching Subaru's lips—watching the sophomore's tongue lick the rim, watching the white hand gently put the glass down. Subaru begins to unravel his scarf and unzip his coat as Seishiro says, "You're late."

The trumpeter's mouth curves into something of a grin and a sprightly smile crossed together. "I know—I was talking to one of my professors about you."

Seishiro raises an eyebrow.

Subaru looks positively thrilled as he pulls out a manila folder from his book bag and slides it over the glossy bar counter into Seishiro's hands. "He said he thought you might like this."

Seishiro blinks at Subaru, amused at the absolute excitement in the trumpeter's voice, obvious anticipation for the conductor's reaction. The Maestro opens the manila folder and swiftly reads through the neatly typed out information letter within. He barely prevents his eyes from growing progressively wider as they scan lower down the columns of words. Once he finishes, he closes the folder and looks up at Subaru smiling knowingly. "How'd you get this?"

He is hiding any hints of giveaway expression that could leak onto his face other than the concealing smile, but Subaru's returning smile tells Seishiro that the trumpeter knows perfectly. In fact, the trumpeter's smile turns into outright laughter. "I'm awesome, huh?"

"Well, considering that you probably just threatened your professor into either giving you this classified piece of information or staying here through winter holiday against his own will, I would have to admit that you are quite awesome," Seishiro says with playful dryness. "But otherwise, I don't have any idea why you felt so compelled to let me know that the conductor of this international orchestra has just resigned due to health and finance issues."

"Because it means that his spot his empty and you can take it when you graduate," Subaru explains obviously. "This news isn't supposed to be released to the arts community until sometime in the spring, but if you already know about it and sign yourself up before then, they'll hold it empty and have it waiting ready for when you graduate."

"Subaru," Seishiro begins skeptically.

Subaru's eyes start to pout. "You can speak English perfectly and you have enough French and Spanish to get by, and you know Mandarin and Korean like first languages."

"I've already decided to sign with a Japanese orchestra," Seishiro says simply.

The trumpeter's teeth visibly close down and his eyebrows crease. "And is that really enough?" Subaru asks solemnly. "Are you really happy with just being in Japan? You don't think that you have too much talent for Japan?"

"Wouldn't that be arrogance?" Seishiro tilts his head with a small smile.

"I remember someone telling me once upon a time that a person can brag all he wants as long as he can back all of it up," Subaru says, looking straight into the conductor's eyes. "I think you have too much talent to just stay in Japan for the rest of your career. It's true that you might have chances to branch out later on, but why would you start out small and grow, when you can start worldwide and grow from _there_?"

I can see Seishiro trying to hide away exactly how touched he is, how his ears are threatening to redden because only the trumpeter could ever make the Maestro flattered enough to color. Instead, the conductor simply smiles and shrugs. "There's no guarantee that they'll accept me, considering they're so big scale and why would they hire someone straight out of university? Plus, I still have to inherit my parents' company, remember?"

Subaru's eyes light up with determination. "Yeah, and your parents' company has headquarters in way more than just Japan, remember? You don't have to control it from Japan—if I were you, I'd make the central HQ the one in New York. Why not control it all from America if you can? Why not move there? Join this orchestra and move to America and that way you'll have even more branches for your parents in Europe and the U.S. I know that Asia right now is where Sakurazuka has the most holds, but you and Fuuma are the new generation—you two can speak English fluently, you can negotiate better than your parents."

"Subaru," Seishiro looks amused now. "Since when you did become such a schemer?"

The trumpeter chuckles under his breath and glances away, almost shy. "Since—since there was someone I wanted to give the world to."

Seishiro's breath stops.

I know that his heart is thumping erratically, unevenly, thunderously.

I can just imagine how shocked a socialite of our generation must be to read this story. How shocked must they be to find out that the Maestro's success, greater success than was expected of even the Maestro, is all because of frail, little, insignificant, helpless Subaru Sumeragi? How shocked must they be to find out that Subaru Sumeragi has never been the Maestro's plaything? How shocked must they be to find out that Subaru Sumeragi has done for the Maestro what Theodora did for Justinian?

"Nothing you said," Seishiro says quietly, "is something I haven't already thought about before, Subaru." He eyes again the info letter, seemingly mulling the words around in his mind. "But it isn't as simple as it's laid out to be—there'll be obstacles and again, there's no guarantee that—"

"What if I told you there is?" Subaru inquires, his eyes fervently illuminated.

The expression on Seishiro's face is disbelieving.

A tiny smile appears on Subaru. "What if I told you that I already guaranteed you a spot and the second you say you want it, it's yours?"

I know that in Seishiro's mind, he's thinking that if he'd never fucked up his relationship with Subaru and if the trumpeter was his at this very moment, he's thinking that he won't say anything if Subaru told him that—he'll just kiss him.

Only he can't.

He can't kiss the trumpeter because right now, Seishiro is still trying to mend the wounds he's inflicted—the bridge isn't even halfway rebuilt and if he tries anything that screams risk like a kiss, it'll fall back to pieces and if that happens, he isn't sure he has any more bricks to use. So he simply says, "How?" and waits for Subaru to tell him exactly how amazing the trumpeter is.

"This professor of mine," Subaru says with a smile, "personally knows the ex-conductor and the president who has control of this orchestra and both of them see Sakurazuka in a good light, so if your parents were to give the okay, you could buy it from them since they need the money to solve their legal issues. And that way, you'd not only be the conductor—it'd be _your_ orchestra."

Seishiro stares at the trumpeter in a sort of awe. "Why—"

"Will you do it?" Subaru asks, eyes pleading. "It'll be amazing for you, Seishiro. Everyone will see you—you'll have everything."

The conductor's heart contracts painfully at those last words. Everything? I want to be able to make Seishiro say what is running through his mind at this moment. By now, he knows that this isn't everything—that what Subaru thinks is everything to Seishiro is not even close. Because even though Seishiro has realized this by now, Subaru still hasn't figured out that he himself is the conductor's everything and the world doesn't even compare.

I stare at the colored lights dancing on the ceiling as I listen for Seishiro's next words. "Are you going to join after you graduate?"

Subaru is slightly taken aback. "This orchestra you mean?" The trumpeter's cheeks puff out a little as he thinks. "Well, if you're really going to head it, then I guess I will—if that's all right with you, I s'pose, since you'd be the one letting people in and out."

I know that Seishiro is thinking that if he does go through with taking this orchestra, he'd tie Subaru onto planes if that meant having him in this orchestra. There is no point in seeing the world, in traveling the globe if it meant not seeing Subaru for weeks, if not months, at a time. Even though as things are now, Seishiro has no idea what they stand as.

"I'm taking it," Seishiro says, causing Subaru to smile breathtakingly, "but I just want to know—why'd you do all this?" He leans forward slightly, feeling everything that was left of his composure stolen completely by the way the trumpeter's eyes glow emerald and clear in the club's dim lighting.

Subaru shrugs one shoulder up and down lightly, looking back at Seishiro in what can only be described as utter and undeserving adoration. "I want you to be happy," the trumpeter says simply. "I know that everyone knows you have all this talent and you know it, too, but I think you have even more than however much you and all the others think you have. I don't want any of it to be wasted—I think...I think that when you're using every last drop of what you have—I think that's when you're happy." He laughs. "When you're pissed, it's usually because you're mad that you can't do something you know will make the piece you're going to perform ten times better, but if you had your own orchestra, you could do anything you wanted."

Seishiro can only snort and continue to bury the urge to kiss Subaru into oblivion. "I'm usually just pissed because I have to take whatever morons pay their way into Akamizu's orchestra."

Subaru laughs. "Good—now that you'll have your own orchestra, you can kick out and grab whoever you want. I s'pose you should start recruiting Yuui and Fai before they get whisked away."

The Maestro aims his eyes at the ceiling and smiles. "Those two can come when they want—I'm not going to make them think that I need them, God forbid, or else their blond heads will get so big that their bodies won't be able to hold them up." Then Seishiro turns his gaze back to Subaru. "Speaking of bodies that can't hold up, are you getting enough sleep? I know that you had a lot of projects due the week before winter holiday, so I wasn't sure if I should've invited you out like this or if I should've just went over to your dorm and stuffed some Tylenol PM down your throat to knock you out."

Subaru breathes out a chuckle and smiles quietly. "I'm fine, Seishiro. I've just been staying a little later than usual for the projects—nothing drastic."

Seishiro doesn't even try to hide the doubt in his eyes. "If you don't get enough sleep, I'm going to pitch up a tent in the middle of your living room," he said, eyebrows raised. "It's the holiday, so I'd better not see you doing any homework, okay?"

"But—" Subaru looks strained.

"I'm serious, Subaru," Seishiro cuts in, wiping the amusement in his eyes that Subaru could possibly the first person he's ever met who looks forward to doing homework over winter break.

Something of a pout appears on Subaru's face again. "You can be really ridiculous, you know? Who tells a college student _not_ to do homework?"

"What kind of a college student _wants_ to do homework?" Seishiro counters.

Subaru grins. "I guess you have a point.

* * *

Seishiro thought that love stories are only worth reading if they end as tragedies. He believed that it wasn't a true love story unless the characters aren't able to be together or they are both together—in death.

But he's never been more thankful about being corrected than he is when his own love story falls into place for its ending.

* * *

It's spring and it's the epilogue.

* * *

I walk around the kitchen counter, covering the expanse of the living room, step-by-step toward the sofa pushed against the large windows that look down upon New York City's thriving morning commute. The sun shines bright and the light plays on the black strands of his hair, mussed and ruffled because he woke up just minutes ago. He yawns into the long-sleeve of his shirt and leans back into the soft leather.

I drape my arms down over his shoulders, my folded fingers resting on his stomach and he tilts his head up with a playful glance up at me. He smiles. "Packed?" he asks.

"I really don't see the point in bringing clothes at all since I'm intending on having both of us naked the entire time."

He laughs. "Not the entire time, right? I don't think the audience wants to watch you conduct naked."

"I think they will."

He rolls his eyes and nudges my shoulder with the back of his head. "Well, since you said 'both of us naked', then that'd mean that I'd be naked too. You want them seeing me naked?"

"Not particularly, no. I guess not. It'd be distracting having to conduct when you're blowing your horn without clothes," I say casually, lips pressing into the crown of his head.

"That's what I thought," he laughs. Then he pulls out of my hold and turns around to face me. "I'm warning you now," his tone is playfully serious, "I'm going to sleep the entire way to Spain, so it's not my problem if your shoulder loses circulation or ends up lower than the other, 'kay?"

I raise my eyebrows. "You don't have to sleep—read a book."

He shrugs. "Why? You have a good one?" A frown appears on his face. "And since when do you like reading?"

It's my turn to shrug as I take a seat beside him on the couch, one knee bent and my body twisted so that we are face to face. "I don't. But I have a good story in mind that I can tell you when you don't feel like sleeping."

"What is it?" he asks doubtfully.

I close the distance between our lips.

"You already know it."


	42. S and the Maestro's Story XII

**A/N: **We're almost there, folks. ^^

Just hold on tight and listen to "Mistake" by SNSD (Girl's Generation) and angst your little hearts out.

* * *

S and the Maestro's Story XII

Seishiro sat down on the floor beside the bed. He didn't know if he would fall asleep midway through the night or whether he'd be able to stay awake at least until whatever Satsuki had given Subaru wore off the trumpeter. The conductor had somehow miraculously gotten to his dorm, changed himself and Subaru into clean pajamas and put Subaru into the Maestro's own bed.

The lights were out and the only sound was the soft ticking of the clock on Seishiro's nightstand. He'd put Subaru on his side, as Kusanagi had told him to, so that the trumpeter's closed eyes were facing Seishiro. This would be the last night that he'd ever be this close to Subaru. It was the reason that he played over and over around in his mind—it was the only thing that stopped his hand from trembling as he reached out and stroked Subaru's cheek.

But the affects had apparently begun to wear off as the touch set Subaru's eyelids fluttering and Seishiro's hand snapping back into his lap. For a moment, the trumpeter simply gazed at Seishiro through the darkness.

What sort of words was he supposed to say when the situation was so fucked up?

"How're you feeling?" Seishiro asked quietly.

"Not bad," Subaru whispered. He lowered his eyes away from the conductor's face and a tiny smile broke onto his face, humorless and sad. "If I said that I'm sorry, would it sound really stupid?"

Seishiro smiled sadly along with him. "Infinitely stupid." He paused. Then, "What about if I said sorry?"

"Retarded and stupid," Subaru said, shifting his head on the pillow. He turned his eyes back to Seishiro with a better smile. "So that's that—no apologies, okay?"

"No apologies," Seishiro echoed softly. He brought his gaze to meet Subaru's, cupping the side of the trumpeter's face. "How about questions? Are those okay?"

Subaru smiled again and nodded, moving himself on the bed so he was closer to the edge—closer to Seishiro. "Yeah. I have some of those."

"If they're about Kyle," Seishiro said quietly. "Other than being able to tell you that what happened wasn't all that unexpected to me, I can't tell you much else—it's not mine to tell. I promise you that someday soon you'll be able to know. Just not now."

There were lights of comprehension and realization suddenly illuminating those green eyes, and Seishiro knew that despite Kamui and Yuui and Fai's persistent efforts to assure that Subaru didn't even have an inkling of what went on behind closed doors, the Maestro had always wanted to tell those three that Subaru, although the kindest of them, had never been as innocent and helpless, had never needed as much protection as any of them thought he had.

The conductor had also wished he could say that he'd never been one of the ones who'd thought this too.

Because although Subaru most likely didn't get the details, now, he definitely had the general idea of what was going on, and it was only a matter of time before Yuui and Fai's ticking time bomb (namely, their relationship) blew up.

"Any more questions?" Seishiro asked.

Subaru's hand extended slowly, and the conductor felt cold fingers graze the path of his cheekbone. "Yeah," the trumpeter whispered. "Just one more."

Seishiro waited.

"Do you love me?"

The fingers on the conductor's cheek began to tremble—so slightly, it might've been imperceptible were it not for the fact that those abrupt words had made Seishiro stiller than stone.

A hint of a smile breezed through Subaru's eyes. "I know you're planning to leave again," the trumpeter said gently. "I learned last time—what 'goodbye' looks like when you look at me. And I know that Kyle's the last person who I should listen to, but he said that you love me. Do you?"

Seishiro merely continued to stare back at the trumpeter. And his expression would've been kept successfully blank if he hadn't suddenly noticed that there was a gathering line of wetness along the rim of Subaru's tired eyes. The trumpeter smiled softly. "I'm not going to stop you from leaving—but—but could you just tell me if you—?" His voice broke. "I mean—it's okay—I'm okay—I just want to know and then that's it."

_Stop me._

With every drop that began to fall from Subaru's eyes, another piece of the Maestro's heart crumbled off. He didn't want to leave. He wanted Subaru to hold him back—to hold on to his feet, grab onto the cloth of his pants, cry and beg him not to leave. He didn't want Subaru to pretend to be okay with this. He wanted Subaru to tell him that Seishiro couldn't leave him any more—he wanted Subaru to tell him that leaving had hurt Subaru more than anything, that it'd just hurt Seishiro, too.

Seishiro wrapped his hand around Subaru's icy fingers, taking them away from the conductor's face. He placed it back on the bed, resting his own hand over the small pale one. "What happens," he began slowly, huskily, "if I say I do? What would you do?"

The tears were running freely down Subaru's face, and the trumpeter breathed in unsteadily and a shaking smile appeared on his face. "If you want to leave, I won't stop you, if that's what you mean. I won't do anything." He was smiling, however tremblingly, but his mouth tightened and his teeth dug visibly into his lower lip as though he was biting down pain. "I'll just hope that you'll become an amazing conductor," the sobs had taken control of his voice. The way Subaru was looking at him right now—with utter adoration and sadness and want and heartache and love. "And that you'll be happy."

_Letting me go and hoping I'll be happy is like planting a bamboo stalk in the desert and expecting it to grow._

Happy?

Were socialites allowed to be happy? Could they ever be?

Normal people were told to be happy—that was their goal. They went to school, learned how to earn money, fell in love, raised families—normal people did all that for the ultimate goal of being happy.

Socialites were told to be the best—that was their goal. They went to school, learned how to make money regardless of the means needed to do so, learned how to exploit sex and love and normal-people-feelings, raised their talents and allies—socialites did all this for the ultimate goal of being the best.

Seishiro had never thought of being happy. He'd only thought of being successful. But _had_ he ever been happy?

Sure he had.

He'd been happy with Subaru.

How dare the trumpeter—how fucking dare Subaru possibly ask, how could he ever _fucking_ even hope, that Seishiro would ever be happy if he was leaving him?

"You won't stop me?" Seishiro whispered.

Subaru took another shaky intake of breath and looked up at Seishiro through a pained gaze, eyes still filled with overflowing tears. "I mean—if you don't—if you don't want me to then I—"

"What about what you want?" He wished his voice didn't sound so threatening. He wished he didn't sound so angry. "What about what _you_ fucking want, Subaru?"

The pillowcase was soaked with saltwater.

And Subaru was laughing—heaves of breath mixed with sobs, heavy and clumsy and even just by the sound, clearly painful and humorless. "You're so retarded," the trumpeter said hoarsely, the tears absolutely just flooding down his face. He fisted the sheet. His eyes met Seishiro's with so much intensity that the Maestro thought his heart had stopped beating for just that instant.

"I want _you_," Subaru whispered. "That's all I've ever wanted."

The trumpeter brought himself up on one arm heavily, his body moving in almost excruciating slowness and weariness. He held the side of the conductor's face in his small hand, sliding his fingers in and out of Seishiro's dark hair. There was that pained, resigned smile on Subaru's face again. "But I know it can't happen. You're thinking it, too, right? Everything's too messed up and it can't ever happen."

Subaru's cold knuckles were gentle and adoring against Seishiro's cheek, stroking carefully and hesitantly. "That's why I'm letting you go," he said, with a smile that danced the line of tears and a voice that trembled with all the reluctance and opposition and dread in the world to do the actions of the words spoken. He took his hand away from Seishiro's face and fell back against the pillows limply, staring up at the ceiling with that terrible, horrible, awful resigned expression that Seishiro had come to hate in only these past few minutes.

The worst part of the expression was that Subaru smiled when that resignation—that resolve to let fucking go—was in the gaze he directed at the ceiling. "You were right," Subaru whispered. "Everyone was right. We weren't supposed to be together in the first place. I remember how they all kept warning me and telling me that you're someone who'll never love one person. They said that someone like you isn't supposed to love someone like me—I'll fall too hard for you and you would never feel enough for me. They all said that you didn't deserve me—that you didn't deserve to have one person love them like that."

Subaru turned his head and his eyes to Seishiro—the trumpeter's smile was no longer the terrible resigned one—that smile had left for the time being. Instead, he was smiling softly—simply, his gaze cradling Seishiro's. "To be honest, I never thought you deserved me either." He laughed under his breath and the heart Seishiro wished he never had—the one no one thought he had—broke because he knew what Subaru would say next.

"I always thought you deserved a lot better."

Even with both his fingers and toes, with a calculator, with a math computer, Seishiro could never count up the number of times that he'd wanted to tell Subaru that better could fuck off for all the Maestro cared—the conductor wanted Subaru.

"I know I haven't answered your question," Seishiro said quietly—suddenly. "But can I ask one?"

"'Course," Subaru murmured.

Seishiro closed his eyes. "If I asked you to, if I told you how sorry—how fucking sorry—I was and am about what happened at the end of your senior year, about everything that happened that year—"

"Even though I didn't think there was anything to forgive—whatever you wanted me to forgive, I already forgave the second after you did it," Subaru interjected, his voice shockingly steady—if one couldn't see him, one would've never guessed that there were tears streaming down his face. And at the moment, Seishiro _couldn't_ see him.

But then the Maestro opened his eyes and there was the sight of Subaru's face—pale from the previous ordeal, tired, dark shadows drawn under his wet, raw eyes, and his cheeks wet with tears. Seishiro smiled bitterly. "Then where does that leave me? How the fuck am I supposed to go on knowing that I did all that fucking shit to you and you're just going to let it all go like that?"

Subaru smiled back—not as bitterly, but twice as sadly. "That's why I'm saying that I'll let you leave this time—I won't cry and scream and hold on to your legs at the door. I don't think I'll really ever love anyone again, but if you leave, if you want me to, I'll move on."

"And if I don't want you to?"

"Then I guess I'll just love you forever," Subaru said with a tiny laugh that turned the remains of Seishiro's heart into ashes.

"Even though you'll never have me?" Seishiro pressed—he knew he was being heartless. He knew he was being a fucking cold bastard all over again. "You'll just love me and stay alone forever?"

Subaru smiled again. "You know, that might be a lot easier than trying to find someone else. It wouldn't be fair to the other person because I wouldn't love them—not really."

This wasn't what Seishiro wanted to hear.

None of this was what Seishiro wanted to hear.

He hadn't wanted to hear Subaru say that he was fucking letting the conductor go. He'd wanted Subaru to beg and cry and hold on to his legs at the door. He'd wanted Subaru to tell him that he never wanted Seishiro to leave again—that he couldn't possibly live without Seishiro because this time Seishiro had decided that if Subaru truly needed him, he'd stay.

Why?

Because Seishiro was a fucking selfish bastard.

But he knew that he'd overstayed his welcome. He'd always known, but at the same time always hoped against, that one day Subaru wouldn't need him anymore. He knew that Subaru would always want him—always love him. But he knew that one day, Subaru would realize that there was more to life than Seishiro, and regardless of how painful—how heartbreaking and unbearable—it would be, Subaru would learn to move on.

Still.

Seishiro wanted to be with him so fucking much.

Subaru was too strong now. It was too obvious how independent, how strong, how confident, how proud the trumpeter had become in the face of everything Seishiro had thrown at him. The Subaru Seishiro had known would've been an empty, sobbing, sleepless bundle of waterworks after what Kyle had just done to him. But here, on Seishiro's bed, despite having been beaten and bruised and fucking raped with a gun, Subaru was crying and talking about potential earth-shattering heartbreak in such a calm manner, it scared the fuck out of Seishiro.

The conductor felt that small hand brush his cheek again. Why did Seishiro feel as though he was the one being comforted?

"You still haven't answered my question," Subaru said softly.

But now, what was the point of answering that question? What was the point of answering when Seishiro would have to leave anyway? What was the point of telling Subaru that the Seishiro loved him so fucking goddamn much if Subaru didn't even need the conductor anymore?

Suddenly, Subaru was straightening up out of the bed. It was clear that every move the trumpeter made hurt, but there was not a bit of evidence of the pain in his expression—it was carefully composed as the trumpeter knelt in front of Seishiro with their knees touching. The trumpeter took one of the conductor's hands into his own small ones and looked right into Seishiro's eyes. "I'm sorry I made you hurt so much," Subaru murmured. "And I know you do—I know. I wish I hadn't been so stupid and I wished I'd known earlier. I wish I hadn't been so retarded because then maybe I would've figured it out earlier."

Seishiro was suffocating. He was suffocating because he couldn't breathe and his heart was being squeezed and squeezed and there was a fist over it and he couldn't even see straight and just being so near to Subaru felt like he was submerged in molten lava and it was so hot and he couldn't breathe why was his line of sight blurred—

"But," Subaru brought himself up higher on his knees, hands on Seishiro's shoulders. The Maestro was blinded with shimmering emerald and he felt soft, soft lips brush carefully over his own—he was _being _kissed by the trumpeter for the first time in much too long. "I can't do anything unless you say it." Subaru smiled gently. "And if you want, I'll wait forever—even if you never say, I'll wait. But I can't do anything until you do."

Seishiro was frozen as he held the trumpeter in his arms.

"I know we said no apologies," Subaru's voice was starting to belie the tears that had continued to fall this entire time—and his eyes had begun to droop sleepily, tempted by the painless abyss just within reach. "But, I really am sorry, Seishiro. I'm so sorry."

* * *

_"For knowing that I will never forget the pain, it's my mistake_

_I know I would get hurt and couldn't let go, it's my mistake"_

_-_"Mistake" by SNSD


	43. The Duke and M: Super Girl

**A/N: **This one-shot wasn't supposed to go in the direction it did. I was just listening to the Korean version of Super Girl by Super Junior M and since it's so Senryuu/Mioru/Kurogane that it's almost ridiculous that I decided I'd write about Senryuu wanting Mioru to get over Kurogane and be with him, but instead it turned out to be the scene/event/moment/whateveryoucallit when Senryuu actually starts crushing-loving-liking-teenager-ing on Mioru during high school so this is sometime really, really early in Kurogane and Senryuu's freshman year and Mioru's sophomore year.

A little more explanation: Senryuu has obviously already seen Mioru with Kurogane and since Mioru is a fair mid A-lister, he knows who Mioru is and the Aoi family and so on, and what Mioru's like. He's intimidated by Mioru and he likes him before this happens, but this little moment is when he actually decides that he loves Mioru in that depressingly emo way because Mioru only loves Kurogane and we get the depressing-Mioru-obsessed Senryuu we all know and love and wish would just get over his angst and grab Mioru by the shoulders and yell that he loves him.

Oh, and for some reason, my email and are still not getting along so like the usual things I get alerted of like people favoriting me or my stories and most importantly REVIEWS don't come in so I can't review reply-the most I can do is PM you back a reply and I'll have to check the actual page for that so that'll be the explanation as to why I don't reply right away because I check my email every day. And all other things that seem weird with the flow of reviews/pms/chapters is because my email and hate each other right now.

* * *

The Duke and M: Super Girl

He's frozen.

He came into the bathroom minutes ago, trying to escape pot smoke, the smell of alcohol, the grinding couples, and the thumping bass just long enough to gather his thoughts before he loses himself again in the blissful mindlessness that he came here to achieve in the first place.

Plus, Senryuu needs to piss.

After all, regardless of the quality of wine Senryuu buys for his house parties, it's still going to be a liquid and it's still going to make Senryuu need to piss.

And vomit.

He stumbled into the stall just minutes ago, trying to keep himself together long enough to let whatever he stuffed into himself as dinner (not that his parents care if he drank on an empty stomach, but he's still a martial artist and if Fuuka finds out, the poor kid is going to wring his hands into shreds in worry on Monday) out into the toilet bowl without getting any on the seat and not to piss his pants because just why the fuck did he have to drink that much?

And just seconds after those minutes ago, seconds after Senryuu locked the door, he heard familiar voices yelling in an all too familiar way—voices that he's heard yelling numerous times in the locker rooms, before practice, during practice, after practice, in the halls, in the courtyard, and just everywhere.

Minutes ago, Senryuu realized that he's in a bathroom stall and Kurogane You-ou and Mioru Aoi are having one of their infamous fights right outside and all Senryuu can hope for is that they don't decide to duke it out completely and start fucking right there because if they do, Senryuu is never going to get to go home.

But as he's listening to them scream at each other at the top of their lungs while trying to keep the sound of his breathing to a minimum, he thinks that he shouldn't have been surprised considering that news of yet another cheating spree by those two was just reported the past few days by bWitch, and the casualties from their cheating war now includes five devastating break-ups of well-off, and almost-settled-and-engaged-_straight_-college-socialite couples (who Senryuu assumes turned out not to be so straight any more, although he heard that some of the girls were involved as well), a fair amount of sister-brother-feuds, and the ruined relationships of at least six pairs of _already_-engaged-straight-middle-socialite-couples.

It's almost amusing in a sort of sick, black way how Kurogane and Mioru always seem to leave a path of destruction amongst previously happy couples whenever they got into their temper tantrums. Granted, the couples are usually always B to C-list socialites meaning the spectators usually don't feel any sympathy or otherwise emotions toward the casualties of the You-ou vs Aoi cheating war, but it certainly earns those two a number of enemies.

And right now, the profanities are starting to fly (or rather, they're starting to fly more than they usually do since Kurogane and Mioru curse on a regular basis) and Senryuu thinks it's only a matter of time until they start fucking and when that happens Senryuu doesn't know if he's going to cringe or panic or just freak the fuck out and it's going to happen too loudly and Mioru and Kurogane are going to stop fucking, hear him, and then kill him.

He leans back against the comforting cool of the toilet and rests his head on the seat. From the sounds, he's come to infer that both of them are probably standing across from each other, almost no space in between, and that they probably have hands on each other—and not in the good way.

"That's not what I meant, you goddamn motherfucker," Mioru snarls. "I'm saying that I just—"

"I don't give a rat's ass about what you're saying or what you mean," Kurogane interrupts, and there's rustling and a grunt from Mioru and Senryuu assumes that Kurogane's just shaken the soccer player again. "I just want to fucking know why you always have to be such a fucking goddamn whore for Christ's sake and why you feel the stupid fucking need to do it with the first naked guy you see who's older than you when he's fucking _married to a girl_."

Mioru laughs spitefully. "Well, it's not like he's going to be married to a dog, so I don't—"

"He's supposed to be fucking straight, Aoi, and you just completely outed—"

"Why the fucking hell should he pretend he's straight if he's fucking gay enough to let me bang him into a wall four different ways—"

"Because—"

"It doesn't fucking matter how big his muscles are or how hot his wife is if he's going to moan like a slut when I stick my fist into his—"

"Aoi, I swear if you don't shut up, I'm going to fucking punch you so hard you're going to feel it in your balls tomorrow—"

"_You're the one who started all of this_," Mioru screams and Senryuu hears a sound extremely familiar to any martial artist—the loud, deep slap of a powerful, roundhouse kick. Senryuu is willing to wager that Mioru can probably kick harder than he and Kurogane put together considering that whenever an opposing team's goalie dares to block Mioru Aoi's goals, the goalie always ends up with a broken limb (or nose or neck or severe head injury) right through his padding.

But as suddenly as the kick came, there is suddenly another familiar sound—the a series of _slap slap slap_ and Senryuu recognizes instantly that Kurogane has punched Mioru and the following thud tells Senryuu that the soccer player has fallen to the ground.

Kurogane sounds beyond any degree of describable fury. "You goddamn, motherfucking, jackass, whoring, fucking, fucking, asshole _bastard_," he growls, low and deadly. "You cheated first this time and you _fucking know_ it."

It's silent.

There are footsteps and Senryuu hears the bathroom door slam—he knows that Kurogane has gone out, but Mioru hasn't because he can see the folded legs of the soccer player through the gap between the stall door and the floor and those legs, covered in dark denim, are merely inches away from where Senryuu also sits on the tiles.

Twenty possible ways of getting out by way of the air ventilation system are running through Senryuu's mind at the speed of light when he's suddenly re-frozen back to his original state when he first came to the conclusion that the object of his more-than-misguided-affections and the object of his object's affections are having an argument less than five feet away from him and that he has no way of getting out until they leave.

"Sorry you had to listen to that," Mioru's voice suddenly comes.

If Senryuu had his wits about him, he would've remained silent but his wits have been shocked out of him and into oblivion so he sort of sputters a ridiculous, "Are you talking to me?" and then feels like promptly dunking his entire head into the toilet bowl.

But all he gets in reply, rather than the Mioru-Aoi-signature insults most likely on Senryuu's intelligence level, is a boyish laugh that makes Senryuu's heart hurt infinitely more than if Mioru did the expected and came brandishing insults and biting sarcasm. Despite what the soccer player has just been through, the laugh is still full and it rings in the air over the background of the pot smoke, the smell of alcohol, and the thumping bass.

Mioru stops laughing and Senryuu can hear him take a steadying breath. His heart is drumming an uneven staccato in his chest because now that the expected insults have been thrown out the window, Senryuu has no idea what is going to happen and it kind of freaks the fuck out of him. But what ends up coming in the next few seconds is a simple, playful, "Well, it's just you in there, right? I mean, you're not fucking or making out with anyone, are you? That'd be ten times more awkward than this is already."

"It's just me," Senryuu replies quietly.

"Okay then," the soccer player chuckles. "So yeah—sorry you had to hear about me being a douchebag. And sorry you had to then hear me _being_ a douchebag. You probably wanted to piss or shit in peace and my boyfriend and I probably just gave you the runs or something—sorry."

It's happening again.

Senryuu can't find his voice.

Or rather, he doesn't know what to say and he's deathly afraid that if he doesn't know exactly what to say, he's going to say something wrong and he'll drive Mioru away because Mioru is so much higher up than Senryuu and Mioru is so, so, so very bright and Mioru will never see Senryuu because all he has in his eyes is Kurogane so what's the point of Senryuu even trying to talk to Mioru when he knows that—

"Hey," Mioru's voice is softer, concerned. "You're not in here because you drank too much of Sakurazuka's shitty, imported booze, right? I'll just tell you one thing—if you start puking that crap up, you're not going to stop until you hurl your entire stomach, intestines coming up right along, into the toilet."

Fantastic. That just made it worse and now Senryuu's mind is emptier than ever—or perhaps not empty—but it resembles something of a whirling vortex of confused blackness.

There is an abrupt thump on Senryuu's stall door and he jolts. From the positioning of Mioru's knees, the soccer player is crouching right in front of the assistant's stall. "Oy, do you need help?" Mioru asks urgently. "Fuck, don't tell me he passed out."

"I'm fine," Senryuu forces out, feeling utterly stupid now that he finally does speak and it's only because he didn't want Mioru to call an ambulance just because the martial artist doesn't know how to fucking talk while his heart is trying to break free out of his chest.

"Dude, you fucking scared me—I think you knocked a few years off my life," Mioru breathes in relief. He doesn't sound pissed like Senryuu thought he would. "Are you feeling sick, though? You were really quiet for a few seconds there."

"I was just—" Senryuu bites his lip and shoves the words out because he has to say something so he doesn't look like an idiot "—lost in thought," he lies. "Sorry. The alcohol makes me spacey."

Senryuu can hear the smile in Mioru's voice. "Oh, all right. Although I should've called 911 anyway just to see what the Maestro would do when he sees ambulances pulling up to his parents' club."

He doesn't know how it happened, but he's laughing right now and it doesn't feel like the laughs he's forced to give at his parents' dinner parties to appear like the perfect son because in his family, there's no such thing as a son without the perfect. Right now, he's laughing and it feels wonderful and natural and his face doesn't hurt from a smile frozen on his face so coldly that he feels the shards of ice poking at his cheeks, puncturing his skin.

"Are you sure you're all good?" Mioru asks again, now with a grin in his voice, when Senryuu stops laughing. "It's not like I have anything to do or fuck tonight now that my boyfriend's pissed at me, so if you want, I can come in there and help you with whatever. I mean—I can't blow you or anything because I'm in trouble, but y'know," the soccer player says teasingly, "other than that, I'll see what I can do."

"No," Senryuu smiles quietly to himself, "I'm fine—but thanks." A sudden thought appears in his mind then. "Do you need help with anything? He seems pretty mad at you."

"Doesn't he deserve to be?" Mioru says and Senryuu can imagine him shrugging casually with the question.

"He shouldn't have cheated back," the martial artist replies, his heart giving another nervous thud.

Mioru snorts softly. "If he didn't, I would've felt like more of a jackass than now. I mean, it hurts that he cheated back and that all this happened again, but he cheated back so I have someone to blame, too. And he can't chew me out for being such an awful person because he did it too even though I started it."

Senryuu tightens his fingers together. "What would you have done if he hadn't cheated?"

"I'd probably come crying on my knees at his door and hold on to his legs begging him to forgive me and not break up with me," Mioru says with a tiny, unexplainable laugh.

Senryuu's eyebrows furrow. "Wait—why's that funny?"

"Oh, it's not," the soccer player says simply. "It's just that that would never happen because hell will freeze over before my boyfriend lets something go—hell's going to become the north pole and Santa's going to move there before my boyfriend's going to just forgive me for something without getting me back."

"That—" Senryuu pauses. "That sounds kind of—it sounds awful," he murmurs. "Why—why would you stay with him?"  
"Because I love him," Mioru says easily—as if it's the easiest thing to admit, so clear cut and factual and true and real. "I mean, if I try to tell you why I love him, it'll be kind of weird—there's no way around that—but it's hard to explain anyway. It's just," the soccer player's voice is feverish with admiration, "he's got this crazy amazing energy and he's so fucking alive, y'know? Like, no matter how many times I fuck up or he fucks up, we can't ever let go and it's just, like, how fucking great is it that there's someone who'll stay with me no matter how fucked up I am?"

"Oh," Senryuu whispers.

"Plus, he fucks me like there's no tomorrow and what could ever go wrong with that?" Mioru snorts. He laughs. "Right?"

Senryuu gives a tiny unseen smile that isn't even a smile at all. "Yeah."


	44. M: Then, Then, Then

**A/N: **Just feeling some rainy day angst blues-type thing, so I made this crappy little thing out of Supreme Team's song "Then Then Then" which is one of those angst-filled, angry rap things that remind you of some hard edge grungy indie rock musicians drinking black coffee at Starbucks and giving you death beams for being too happy. It's a really good song (and furthers my obsession with Kpop) so you should all put yourself in the grungy musician black coffee mood by listening to that.

And, because I just have taken to writing little music-inspired one shots lately, if any of you can spot the mention of a certain Kpop song in this one shot and review me the answer, I'll write you a one shot of a pairing of your choice from the Secrets-verse, whether it's one like Senryuu/Mioru, one who've gotten a ton of spotlight lately, or one we haven't seen in a while. And when I say pairing, it doesn't have to be like romantic pairing. It could be a brotherly thing with Yuui/Fai or a friend thing like Yuui/Kamui, Mioru/Subaru, Fai/Subaru, whatever tickles your fancy. And if you're into Kpop (which I guess you probably would have to be if you found the Kpop reference), you can tell me a song that you want your pairing one shot made out of.

Here's the hint: Beastly idols at a certain time in the afternoon. And plus, I mean, the song title is in italics.

* * *

Then Then Then

It'd always been something Mioru wondered about.

He'd always wondered why everything had gone wrong. He'd wondered when it'd all started going wrong.

The only thing he'd never wondered about was whose fault it was because that was clearly Mioru—no matter how many times he'd tried to convince himself arrogantly, desperately, selfishly, pitifully that it hadn't been his fault, that maybe it'd been both their faults or some stupid guidance counselor shit like that, no matter how many times he'd tried, it'd never worked because he knew it was his fault.

Maybe it'd started when he'd realized, when their relationship had been new, when they'd always been flirting and making out and having sex and their physical fights were nothing but another form of flirting—when Mioru had realized that he wanted to know the lengths Kurogane would go to for him. The soccer player had learned long before he'd met Kurogane what infatuation looked like, and once he'd caught it in the martial artist's eyes, there had been an instantaneous need to test the limits that Kurogane would reach for Mioru.

Maybe that'd been why he'd started the cheating.

Maybe that'd been why he'd started the insulting, the cynicism, the unbelievable selfishness, the punches and kicks with full strength behind them.

Maybe he'd just wanted to know if Kurogane would withstand it all and keep loving him because that'd been what his parents had seemed to tell Mioru about love through their actions. His parents had seemed like any ordinary, loving couple when Mioru had been younger, but perhaps that was only because of the blurry memory one always had about their early childhood.

However, as soon as Mioru could remember clearly, all he remembered was how his father had a different mistress every week and his mother would be seen with a different employee of his father's in retaliation every week. And in the house, they rarely spoke to one another—cold glances, curt nods, crisp and business-like tones to hand over a bottle of water or pass the salt or if the weather would be agreeable to tomorrow's flight to Kyoto?

Maybe Mioru had just concluded that love couldn't possibly be what his parents had because they couldn't withstand each other, much less withstand their son if his grades were anything less than perfect—if he lost any of his games, if his teachers said anything unsatisfactory about him, if he was ever in detention, if he ever had any less than fifty friends since friends were future allies in the business world. Maybe in all his stupidity, Mioru had concluded that if Kurogane really loved him, the martial artist would put up with all the bullshit Mioru decided to stir up and stay with him even then because wasn't that what love was?

He hadn't understood that although love was standing through the person you loved through thick and thin, that hadn't meant you yourself were supposed to purposely make things too thick to stand through. And cheating definitely wasn't counted as an unfortunate event that your lover was supposed to stand through with you. Mioru hadn't known that when someone cheated on you, it was the same as saying that you were bored with the person you cheated on. He'd thought that even if it did, Kurogane would know—_he had to know_—that there was no one Mioru wanted except for him. He'd thought that having sex with people other than Kurogane just meant that Mioru wanted someone different in his bed once in a while, but it didn't mean he loved Kurogane any less.

He'd thought that until he saw someone different in _Kurogane's_ bed.

All of a sudden, his logic had no longer made any sense to him.

But by then, it'd been too late and the cycle of _again and again_ had started.

Mioru had always wondered what would've happened if he'd just thought a little more back then. If, back then, if he'd just considered how Kurogane had felt all those times instead of plowing ahead with what he thought was obvious relationship logic.

With Kurogane nowadays, it was always "back then"s.

Back then—when Mioru had still been able to climb in through Kurogane's open bedroom window whenever his parents were fighting or chewing him out and the martial artist would be ready with a listening ear and gruff, sound advice.

Back then—when Mioru had known that he could touch Kurogane with no worries or restraints because the martial artist still belonged to him and him alone and that Kurogane loved him and only him back.

Back then—when Mioru had still been able to spend sleepless nights fitted into the frame of Kurogane's arms in bed, talking endlessly about soccer games and martial arts matches and how they'd be world famous athletes in the future, and how their future would be each other.

Back then—when Mioru had still been able to believe that he was worth something, that even if his parents didn't need him, even if his teammates were nothing but teammates, even if everyone else thought he was a heartless bastard out for nothing but status, that none of that mattered as long as Kurogane believed in him and that Kurogane knew that Mioru was so much more.

Back then—when Mioru had still been allowed to make mistakes and screw up every once in a while and just laugh it off with Kurogane because Kurogane didn't give a shit about Mioru tripping like an idiot during practice or throwing off his temper with the referee or even flipping off his coach because Kurogane just thought it was all one big party of awesome and Mioru could feel like the world was his.

Back then—when Kurogane had still loved Mioru.

With Kurogane, it was always then, then, then.

The problem was that it wasn't then any more.

It was now.


	45. The Duke and M: When the Door Closes

**A/N: **I'm officially now on winter break so I'll try to do as much as I can-it's not really even a break for me (and I'm sure it's the same for most of you too) since I'm taking Driver's Ed and of course, the obligatory winter-break-pre-midterm-homework that I'm sure makes everyone's holidays lovely. () But yeah, so my new Kpop obsession, namely BEAST/B2ST is releasing a series of three duets (there are six members so 6 / 2 = 3 duets) and this is the first of them from, ironically, the leader (the oldest) and the youngest member and of course, per BEAST for those of you who know, it's angsty and perfect for Senryuu/Mioru.

AND, **Skip-Step-Turn**, I have definitely not forgotten about your prize fic, so look forward to that, erm, soon-ish ^^ But I swear I will get it done, so don't ever worry that it'll evaporate into nothingness.

* * *

When the Door Closes

Senryuu knows it's not supposed to last.

He knows that this thing—whatever it is—that he has with Mioru isn't meant to last and he doesn't want it to. He doesn't want it to even though he wants Mioru and is falling in love with him every second more that he spends time with him, but he doesn't want it to because that would be selfish. It would be selfish and it would be taking advantage of Mioru because Mioru isn't looking for love when he's with Senryuu. When Mioru flirts and touches and fucks and smiles at Senryuu, it isn't for love—it isn't for the possibility of love.

Mioru just needs someone to help him heal after Kurogane.

And Senryuu knows that's what he's there for.

He knows that Mioru has loved Kurogane for longer than some people will ever stay married and that it's not easy, it can't possibly be easy, to pull yourself out of a love like that. And even when you finally manage to end the process of pulling yourself completely out of it, it starts a whole new, just as painful, process of healing all the cracks and wounds and remains of what used to be.

Senryuu is fine with being the one to heal Mioru.

* * *

_When I let go of this hand now_

_I'll no longer have any reason to smile but_

_When I see you smiling_

_In another's embrace, I'll try to smile_

* * *

The door is open.

It's been open for years, just waiting for Senryuu to walk in and this is his chance. There's never been a time more right—more needed—for him to walk in, so he does. He walks in to a dark room, just bits of light seeping through unseen holes here and there and at a corner of this black, black room is a huddled figure—huddled on the ground, knees to his chest, damp hair covering his face and arms around himself tightly.

Senryuu kneels in front of the boy and tries to take the boy's hands away from his body, but once he touches the boy's hands, he realizes they are wet with blood. They are wet with the boy's own blood and when the boy looks up, his beautiful face is covered with bleeding gashes and scrapes—his face is dirty, like a street urchin roaming the streets of an old British novel. His clothes are ragged and he has cuts and scrapes covering every inch of his exposed skin.

But he's still lovely.

His eyes are huge and round and they look at Senryuu sadly—sadly, as if to say—

_I'm sorry this is all that's left of me._

_I wish I could give you more._

_I wish I could be better for you._

Senryuu knows that if he speaks, the boy won't understand him. He knows that even if he tries to tell the boy that he doesn't care—that Senryuu doesn't give a shit about how marred and dirty and scarred and wounded and injured the boy is because he's still the most beautiful thing there is—the boy can't understand him.

So Senryuu doesn't speak.

He simply brushes the boy's hair back, away from his perfect face, his sorrowful eyes, and starts to heal the wounds. He binds them with long rolls of bandages, dabs them with medicine, pulls warm wet towels over the boy's skin, dries his hair, holds him, changes his clothes, whispers meaningless comforts into the boy's ears. He does all of this and with every touch and every heartbreakingly grateful gaze the boy gives him, Senryuu falls more and more until he wants to stay in this room with this boy forever.

The room isn't even dark any more.

As the dirt is washed off, as the injuries are cleansed and bound and the smaller cuts start to heal and fade, the room brightens and the previously tiny pinpricks of light begin to stretch into huge columns until the entire room is alight. The room is as beautiful as the boy, with simple clean white walls and huge windows with sunlight flooding in—windows that were curtained closed when the boy was hurt.

And the door is still open.

Only Senryuu knows that, now, it's not open waiting for anyone to come in—not now. It's open for Senryuu to walk out. It's open for Senryuu to walk out in order for someone else to walk in. He doesn't know who's supposed to be that someone and he knows the boy doesn't know either—the boy probably doesn't even know that someone is supposed to walk in, but Senryuu does. He knows that whether it be eons after he walks out or just moments, someone else will walk in and when they walk in, the door will close after them—and they'll be with the boy forever in this room.

The boy is standing now—Senryuu has carefully pulled him up, and the boy is looking at Senryuu with such bright, lovely eyes, not a single trace of sorrow in them anymore. The boy's clothes are clean and his dark hair and pale copper skin glow like the sunlight that falls around him. He holds Senryuu's hands in his, breaking into a thankful smile—too much joy that it makes Senryuu's heart break cleanly in two.

Senryuu knows it's not exactly time for him to go yet—he still needs to stay in this room because the boy's wounds haven't finished healing and many of them still need tending to. But the important part is that he's prepared to leave. When the last scar fades and the boy begins looking out the window instead of adoringly at Senryuu—like this moment now—Senryuu will know that it's time to walk out that open door.

If the door ever opens again because the boy gets more wounds or because the boy needs him, then Senryuu will be waiting right beside the door way, ready to walk in at a moment's notice and ready to walk right back out as soon as he's not needed any more. He'll always be there because this one room has given Senryuu the happiness that he never knew even fucking existed—at least nothing that was meant for him.

But knowing this boy, knowing this beautiful, bright, lively, lovely, amazing boy—Senryuu knows that there will come at time, sometime, when Senryuu walks out this open door, someone else walks in, and then it's going to close. It's going to close, and when it does, when this time comes, it's not going to open ever again. He knows that this will happen sometime in the foreseeable future and that when it does, that'll be that.

* * *

_When this door closes_

_When the image of you disappears_

_I'll probably spend the day in tears_

_Because of the memories with you, I'm left alone_

_I wish that you'll be happier_


	46. Filling In The Blanks V

**A/N: **No, you're not hallucinating. This is really good, honest, no-need-to-think-as-you-read fluff. Think of it as a crappy, late, apology Christmas present because I meant to update either Unveiled or Compelled or even Seishiro and Subaru's thing and instead I just ended up writing fluff because...yeah. That's the best explanation I've got, so review if you like the break from the angst because I have a feeling that I'm going to be writing more fluff until I get back on track with the angst. T_T

Again, that Subaru/Mioru fic I owe. Still not forgetting.

* * *

**13: Easy Come**

"That's just disgusting," Watanuki puffed, wiping the fog from his glasses before replacing them onto his face. "That's just absolutely disgusting. It's probably not sanitary either."

"What, did you not shower for a week or something?"

"No!" The goalie flushed, kicking Doumeki back a few paces and trying to hike his pants back onto his hips. "I meant unsanitary in regards to you. Who _knows_ what's been in _your_ mouth. What with you hanging out with people like Yuui Fluorite, who probably has never been taught that public restrooms aren't for private matters."

Doumeki blinked and one eyebrow slowly, eventually, went up. He scooped up some of the fluid splattered on his cheeks and mouth and held it up. "I don't get how this is private."

"_It just is_." Watanuki sputtered a bit. "Besides, what if someone had walked in? And please just fucking wash your face off already."

The forward looked around the empty bathroom. "But no one did."

Watanuki sighed. "But what if someone _had_?"

"But no one _did_."

"But someone might _have_."

"But _no one did_."

"But what _if_ someone had?"

"But they—"

"Just shut up," Watanuki finally snapped. Doumeki's other eyebrow rose. "The point is," Watanuki ground out, taking some paper towel, wetting it, and wiping off his thighs. "_You do not blow me_ in a public restroom during the breaks of our off-season weight lifting sessions—especially while the rest of the team is still present in the building, along with possibly some media."

"It's because the breaks are just the right amount of time," Doumeki plowed on obliviously.

"That made no sense and no relevance whatsoever."

"Yes it does. If it weren't so easy to make you come, then I wouldn't have time to blow you during the breaks. They're only ten minutes each and it takes three minutes for me to lock you in the bathroom so you don't run first."

"Go die."

"Your stuff is really white, isn't it? Mine's never this white."

"_Die_."

* * *

**14: Rite of Passage**

The more Subaru thought about it, the more he probably should have expected it. Not to say that he should have made it happen if it hadn't, but he probably should learn to welcome it as a sort of adult initiation process instead of the traumatizing event that his mind first shuttled it off to be. Especially considering the fact that he was semi-friends with Yuui Fluorite, he most likely should have definitely pre-prepared himself for something of this kind happening, but it just never occurred to him to do so.

It had happened, really, with all the right classic, family sitcom factors that Subaru had ever heard of (only he doubted this exact situation would crop up in a family sitcom because it wasn't really appropriate for a family with children and children tended to more often than not make up at least half of the family).

The trumpeter had driven himself down from Akamizu for winter break, planning to spend the few days before Christmas with his parents and then drive back up to Akamizu to meet with Seishiro who would be giving his dutiful alumni Christmas concert with his international orchestra before heading to his next stop of Luxembourg.

In retrospect, Subaru probably should have restrained his excitement about being able to see Seishiro after four months and paid more attention to what his brother had been telling him while the trumpeter packed in his room earlier this morning. He probably should have listened to what Kamui had been telling him about the writer leaving at ten so he'd be home by lunchtime and thus he would be back in town before Subaru since he knew that Subaru was leaving at one and would be home by three if traffic wasn't terrible.

He should have listened because if he'd listened, he would've also heard Kamui mentioning that since Fuuma was heading back for winter break as well, and considering that Mr. and Mrs. Sakurazuka were with Seishiro at the moment, Fuuma would just ride with Kamui to the Sumeragi house and stay there until the rest of his family came back from (if Subaru remembered correctly from what Seishiro last told him) Taipei.

He should have listened because if he'd listened, then using his superb intelligence (and mostly just the fact that he knew his twin and Fuuma well enough), he would've been able to deduce that if Kamui and Fuuma were riding together and Kamui and Subaru's parents wouldn't actually be home until later that evening, then that would automatically mean Fuuma and Kamui were probably going to be in Kamui's room having sex because they wouldn't be able to have sex any other time during the stay at the Sumeragi house.

And with this worked out logic, Subaru would have been able to put in the additional already given information that he knew (he didn't want to know how he knew, and he didn't want anyone else to know how he knew) his brother had a thing for having sex in public places during high school which meant that Kamui was exceptionally skilled in keeping himself quiet when needed and that sometimes it just became a habit unless the sex was too mind-blowing.

Although he wasn't sure how he knew that either but if he kept thinking about it he _did_ know that he'd have too much of a migraine to enjoy Christmas dinner with his parents.

Nevertheless, he should have listened but even then he had a feeling that it wouldn't have stopped him from going through the mandatory rite of passage that was forgetting to knock on the room to your brother's bedroom and finding aforementioned brother naked and pinned face-first to the wall with _your boyfriend_'s brother doing the pinning (and the clear in-out-sideways-view movement was just an insult to injury).

He'd always known that this whole dating your brother's boyfriend's brother thing was going to traumatize him at one point or another. He just didn't know it'd be like this and he'd also thought that when it did happen, he'd be able to be less awkward because all he was currently doing right now was sputtering, staring horrified into Kamui's equally horrified eyes and trying to get his feet to move and back out of the room.

Fuuma merely looked bored (and too much like Seishiro) and said, only somewhat breathless, "I love that you make my bastard brother happy and all, but if you don't leave in half a second, I'm just going to finish with you there."

* * *

**15: Sharing is Caring**

It was no secret that Kamui thought about Seishiro the same way most people thought about poison ivy—that there was no other point of it existing other than to cause others terrible pain and suffering and the only way for it to cause some semblance of happiness was to not exist _at all_. It was also no secret that Kamui thought about Subaru the way most healthy adolescent males thought about their dicks—it was their pride and joy and if anything bad should happen to it, bad things were going to happen to whomever or whatever had made that bad thing happen.

Which meant that just because Kamui was happy (_so happy_, he truthfully was because Subaru _deserved_ to be happy) that all of the crying, fucking, angsty bullshit was finally solved, didn't mean that reading a text or getting a call on why Subaru couldn't be with the writer during the weekends or some random day-off because he would be spending it with Seishiro brought a smile to his face.

In fact, the only thing it brought was obscenities and maybe some broken dishware—occasionally, it also brought at least a week of abstinence for Fuuma because Kamui had to make _someone_ miserable or else he'd never get over his indescribable irritation.

It wasn't that Kamui wanted Subaru to find someone else because he knew that only Seishiro would make him happy (why Seishiro made him happy Kamui didn't have an answer to because the answer was probably non-existent, much like Seishiro should be), but seeing Subaru with Seishiro all the time was a lot like trying to masturbate with your hands filled with poison ivy.

And Kamui might have remained accepting and tolerating about all of this because it made sense that Subaru spent a lot of time with Seishiro, and that the time spent with Seishiro and the time spent with Kamui made about an 8 to 1 ratio because Kamui spent along that same amount of time with Fuuma.

But like everything else Seishiro was involved with, the conductor had to fuck that up too.

The first time it'd happened, it'd happened with Kamui and Seishiro standing against the marble countertop of Subaru and Seishiro's kitchen, and the trumpeter sitting upright on the sofa, absolutely engrossed a newly released documentary on the life of Wynton Marsalis. Kamui was trying to force open a bottle of some odd Swedish juice that Seishiro had brought back from his latest concert and didn't quite know how he was supposed to tell Seishiro that it might not be the most agreeable taste with born-and-bred Japanese men.

"So," Kamui ground out through his teeth as the metal cap continued not to budge after half an hour. He held the bottle under one arm and tried to twist it open with a rough towel over his free hand. Seishiro merely looked bored and smiled. "Subaru, you're coming with me to the opening of that new club on Friday, right?"

"Mm," Subaru murmured absently, eyes clearly focused on the television screen.

"I thought we were doing something together that night," Seishiro said casually, his arms folded, eyebrows raised.

"Mm," Subaru murmured again, even more obviously not listening. In fact, it was most likely pure reflex that he was making some sort of noise to respond to another noise.

Kamui stopped fighting the juice bottle to stare at Seishiro. "I made these plans with him like _two weeks ago_. There is no way—"

"I fucked him two weeks ago," Seishiro shrugged, as if that was supposed to mean something.

Kamui's eyes narrowed because this made no sense and even though he knew that squinting wasn't going to make the sense exist, it was still a reflect reaction. "What—but—how does that—_in any way_—you fuck him all the time!" he finally scratched out, exasperated and pissed because having poison ivy on your dick just _wasn't_ enjoyable.

Subaru looked up at the sudden loudness. He frowned, and his lower lip came out slightly in what appeared to be a potential pout. "Are you two bitch-fighting again? Because last time I tried to stop that, I ended up getting fucked on that counter and—"

"Subaru," Kamui sidestepped hastily around the counter and stood in front the TV screen so that he had the assurance that his brother wouldn't space off on him again. "Friday night—this Friday night—we are going to that club opening, right? We are going together without Seishiro, correct? Because I said this to you two weeks ago and I _saw_ you mark it on your phone."

His brother stared at him for all of three seconds before the trumpeter's mouth dropped open. "Fuck."

It was never a good thing when Subaru swore because Subaru never swore in front of Kamui or Seishiro unless Seishiro was fucking him and Kamui didn't really want to know how he himself knew what came out of his brother's mouth during sex.

Kamui sighed. "What?"

Subaru looked up apologetically. "That was two weeks ago on a Sunday, right? The Saturday before that I actually already told Seishiro that we'd do something tomorrow night and I guess I forgot."

The journalist gaped. "What do you mean _do something together_? You _do_ something together with him every night so why would you make a date to have sex _two weeks from having the sex_ when I _know_ you had sex every night between two weeks ago and now?"

Subaru now looked extremely apologetic but— "Wait," the trumpeter said suddenly, looking confused. "How do you _know_ we had sex every night since two weeks ago?"

Kamui blinked. And then swallowed. "Seriously, Subaru," he said quickly, feeling Seishiro laughing at him. "I don't get—"

"You can have your brother back the rest of the weekend," Seishiro cut in, smoothly and suddenly from the background. Kamui whirled around and glared at him. He glared even harder as he noticed that the conductor had somehow opened the bottle of juice by himself in probably about three seconds when Kamui had failed for three hours.

"But—he—I—_two weeks_—you—can't—asshole," Kamui sputtered.

Subaru took his brother's hands and pulled him down beside him on the sofa, eyes filled with more remorse than ever while Kamui could've sworn he heard Seishiro practically jacking off in triumph. "I really am sorry—but I promised Seishiro first. And he's really busy sometimes up at the office—"

As if Yuuko didn't keep Kamui running back and forth between _countries_—

"—so I don't have much time to spend with him and I'll be with you for Saturday and Sunday, so I'm really, really sorry, okay?"

And really, there wasn't much Kamui could say back to that because since when had anyone sane been able to refuse an apology from Subaru? The only thing Kamui could do was nod, put out, and turn around to flip a smirking conductor off.

After that, it'd simply exploded into tug-of-war.

It'd been tug-of-war with Kamui holding on to Subaru's left arm and Seishiro holding on to the right arm, and even though Kamui hated to admit it, the writer's toes were beginning to scratch the boundaries line and his heels were dug deep into the dirt. Which wasn't to say that Kamui didn't sometimes gain land—because he did, sometimes he thought hard enough and pulled hard enough and his toes would slide back just inches, but inches were enough to keep him from falling over the line completely.

He knew that to Fuuma, and to most all of the others, this was so stupid that it didn't even deserve words to express the degree of stupidity it'd reached, and while no one was really surprised that Seishiro was doing it, they were a considerable amount surprised that Kamui was responding in it.

"This has gotten so retarded, I can feel the retardation from where I am, and I'm halfway around the world," Yuui said, one afternoon through Skype on Kamui's laptop while the writer simultaneously searched through his phone for restaurant reservations _three months in advance. _

"Oh—shut up," Kamui muttered.

He heard the pianist snort. "You're not even looking at my gorgeous face, so what's the point in indulging my newfound obsession with this sexy as hell webcam?"

"The only reason you like that webcam so much is because now it lets you more easily record you and Ashura fucking without Ashura knowing," Kamui snapped back absently, biting his lip as the restaurant manager texted him back saying that they only had reservations four weeks in advance at the most—and that was only because Kamui was a highly valued customer. "Fuck you," he muttered to his cell phone.

"You know," Yuui plowed on, "at first I thought that this would all make more sense if I understood the point of it all, but then I realized that there _was no point_."

Kamui ignored him and told the manager that he'd be canceling the booking of that restaurant for Yuuko's press conference after party next week because he was clearly not valued _enough_ if they only allowed him a measly four week advance in reservations. He glanced up at his laptop screen and was met with Yuui's displeased smile. "What?"

"You're so stupid it hurts sometimes," Yuui said coolly, and ended the call—the pianist's face disappeared.

The writer blinked for a few seconds at the screen, then promptly went back to contacting another restaurant that did value him (and the money that rolled in from Yuuko's agency) enough to give him a reservation three months in advance—six months if they wanted Yuuko's birthday party to be held at their restaurant.


	47. K and F: I Love You Oh Thank You

**A/N: **I just felt like some KuroFai (y'know, since in Impulse, Unveiled, and Compelled, I've like dived off the deep end and there hasn't been any KuroFai-the main point of all of this-since like Secrets, which feels like centuries ago) and this is the most adorable song ever. It's like that song that you can use for weddings, and friendships, and family, and relationships all at ONCE. It's by MC Mong (urgh, the army drama is making me really tired these days) and I'm sure if you're into Kpop, it's like a classic must-know.

* * *

I Love You Oh Thank You

_I love you, Oh Thank You  
You're always in my heart I can feel it  
Wherever you are I can go there  
Then I can live this hard life_

Fai wonders if Kurogane knows.

He wonders if Kurogane knows just how much he's done for Fai.

To a certain extent, Fai is sure that Kurogane knows how much they've both done for each other. It's not arrogance, not conceitedness when they know what they are to each other—it's just fact because they are long past the stage where they pretend to be modest, fumbling and reddening and trying to tell the other that they've done far more for them. Although, Fai isn't even sure they were ever at that stage because it feels like they've always known what they are to each other.

To a certain extent, Fai knows that Kurogane knows how much Fai needs him and how much Kurogane has helped him. It's just something that Kurogane knows, Fai thinks, but most likely not something that Kurogane ever bothers to bring into his actual thoughts. Kurogane probably treats it the same way you would treat knowing your name—you know your name, you use the fact that you know it all the time, but you never actually think about it.

Kurogane probably doesn't think much, if at all, about how much he's done for Fai.

Fai does.

_Because of my greed I might try to captivate you in me  
Because of hard days you might cry  
I'm not good so you might feel I'm not enough  
You might find coping with me hard you might leave me_

After the year they met, after that whirlwind of a year, there wasn't much that seemed dramatic. For a brief fleeting few days after the finale of that year literally going down in flames, it seemed like all of Fai's problems were solved. It felt like nothing had ever happened and whatever had happened had disappeared with those final flames.

But a trauma that constantly oppressed someone throughout their entire life didn't disappear just because the oppressor did. And while Fai, back then, had expected that it would still be difficult—that recovering would take years—he didn't know that it would be the way it would. For that brief fleeting moment, he thought that because he now had Kurogane, because he'd finally had sex with someone that wasn't Kyle, everything was healed—everything was solved.

He had forgotten, at that time, he'd only had sex with Kurogane once.

And as it turned out, he wouldn't have sex with Kurogane for the rest of the summer. He wouldn't have sex with Kurogane for the entire first quarter of his senior year. And when he finally managed to have sex with the martial artist again, it came with an aftermath of nightmares and screaming.

It was terrible.

As beautiful as that previous brief and fleeting moment had been, during his senior year, Fai had an equally brief and fleeting moment that was quite the opposite of thinking everything was going to be perfect and normal because he had Kurogane now. This brief and fleeting moment came about after yet another nightmare, another night of waking in his dorm by himself, sweating and sticky because it'd been Kyle touching him and Kyle making him come and he'd come and for the past few times it'd happened, Fai had always woken Kurogane up.

He'd always gone to Kurogane, but could he really keep going to Kurogane?

It'd been bearable for the first three nights—not in succession, but just three nights, each of those nights somewhere near after a night they had had sex—but could Fai really continue waking up Kurogane at fuck o'clock p.m. just because Fai was clearly still mental and too weak to bat away his own demons?

Before Kurogane, before this, it'd always been Yuui in the middle of the night and Ashura during the day, and now it was just Kurogane by himself working full-time.

Fai wasn't a child being handed around.

He didn't want to be and he wasn't going to let himself be.

The violinist fell back on his pillows, staring up at the ceiling and his body immediately told him that sleep was going to be impossible tonight—he was exhausted, but he could feel that there wasn't to be any sleep. He did know, for certain, however, that tomorrow he'd be part of the living dead and probably would have to miss classes even though he'd already been absent far too much last year.

This would be the last time.

He swore to himself that after this, if it happened again, he'd deal with it on his own because Kurogane needed to sleep too—what with his exhaustion being physical from training—and it wouldn't be the best thing for anyone if he collapsed during a session or a match for God's sake and—

An errant thought climbed into his mind.

It wasn't a new thought—it'd passed through his mind countless times before last year, but right now, it seemed to be resurfacing because it was as if it'd regained potential.

He clambered out of bed and went to the bathroom—methodically going through the ever-familiar, and bitter, process of cleaning himself, changing his underwear, changing his pajama bottoms and splashing his face with cold water. He looked up and stared into the mirror, at the rivulets sliding down his cheeks, reassuring himself with the knowledge that they weren't tears and they never would be. "If he leaves," he murmured to his reflection, "you let him."

Fai headed into the small living room, sitting down on the sofa and turning on the TV, lowering the volume to a soft hum. The lights were still dark around him, and he curled his legs off of the ground, resting his chin on his knees. He waited until he heard rustling come from Kurogane's room—he knew that the running water had probably waken the athlete. Really, the only reason that they didn't sleep in the same bed was because Fai had insisted that if they slept together, Kurogane would never get any sleep.

And it was true.

Not that Kurogane was getting much sleep in a separate bed either, though.

It was only a minute or two before Kurogane came wandering into the living room, and flicked on the lights. He had one hand in the pocket of his sweatpants and the other blearily running through his sleep-tousled hair, putting it higher on end that it already was. He crossed over and sat down next to Fai on the sofa, looking at the television disinterestedly.

"I didn't scream," Fai said quietly—after a long moment of silence.

"I know." Kurogane paused, too. "I heard the water."

"Oh—yeah. I thought you would."

The martial artist nodded once.

Another long moment passed—an entire segment of the late night game show had finished and it was now on to the third commercial break. "Go to sleep, Kuro-san," Fai said finally.

"I'll sleep when you do."

Fai smiled blackly. "Don't be an idiot."

"You're the idiot," Kurogane said coolly.

Fai continued to smile. "So I've been told. Go to sleep, Kuro-sama."

"I'll sleep when you do," came the calm repetition.

The musician wrapped his arms around himself, fingers curling over his sleeves, and settled back into the sofa's cushions. "Then I guess neither of us are sleeping tonight," he said, and fell silent.

It was just like that—silent for too long, and too long for Fai to be able to tell how long it was. The sky peeping through the blinds was dark and there was no way to tell the passage of time until the sun began to peak through. But so far, it continued to remain pitch black. The air between them was prickling, anxious, as though someone was expected to say something soon, but never soon enough because the wordlessness merely stretched on longer and longer—not uncomfortable, but not meant to be.

Suddenly, Kurogane stood up and Fai let out a relieved breath—good, he was going back to sleep.

But the martial artist came to stand directly in front of Fai, towering over the violinist's sitting form. Fai raised his eyebrows, questioning, as their eyes met for a brief second. Kurogane shrugged and then, too quickly and too abruptly, slipped his hands under Fai and lifted him up into the athlete's own arms, one around Fai's shoulders and the other under Fai's knees.

Fai sighed—he'd been carried more than once, possibly more than six, by Kurogane, meaning this wasn't a foreign place to be in. However, it wasn't a place he was fond of because it was a stupid place. Fai could take care of himself and even though he knew too well that Kurogane's posturing of not wanting to be bothered to take care of Fai was just part of Kurogane's mandatory front, Kurogane really _shouldn't _have to be bothered.

"You're going to sleep," Kurogane said, "because I can't sleep unless you do, and I'm fucking exhausted."

Fai slid his eyes up at the athlete and smiled wearily. "Then just sleep yourself."

"Shut up, Fluorite."

Kurogane carried Fai into the musician's room lightly tossed the violinist onto his own bed. "Putting me to bed," Fai said slowly, "isn't going to make me sleep, Kuro-chan. Even if I try, I'm not going to sleep, so I might as well go out and get some work done." He looked up at the athlete again, tiredly smiling. "Just go get some _sleep_—please?"

The martial artist pushed Fai down onto the bed and then sat down beside him. "You're going to sleep," he said in a low voice. Kurogane moved his legs off the floor and flattened himself against Fai's body, legs on either side of Fai's hips, elbows letting his face hover just inches above Fai's. "I'll make you." And Fai could feel warm breath dusting over his lips.

"Sex isn't going to make me fall asleep," Fai said, smiling bitterly up at the athlete.

Kurogane looked unperturbed. "I didn't say anything about sex." And as sudden as he'd rolled onto Fai, he rolled off of him, onto the space beside him, one arm flung across Fai's shoulders and the athlete's head in the crook of Fai's neck and chin. Kurogane was warm—warm and human and Fai could feel every breath that lifted the athlete's body up and down. "Are you going to tell me about the nightmare?"

Fai stared at the ceiling. "No."

The martial artist hoisted himself up on one elbow, shifting around until he was comfortable with one hand cupping Fai's face. Fai let Kurogane move back and forth, finding different positions, touching Fai's hair and Fai's skin and Fai's lips. The violinist himself simply remained a statue—the center of Kurogane's movement. "Look at me," Kurogane said, his voice a gruff whisper, almost inaudible.

Fai didn't move.

"Fai," Kurogane said.

The musician felt himself jerk, about to turn his head from the pure instinct in having his first name called by a voice that his ear had been trained to only ever hear his last name. Kurogane had called him by his first name times before—but not often because it wasn't meant to be used often between them, their first names. Just like Fai only ever used Kurogane's full name for something deathly serious, Kurogane only ever used Fai's first name when he needed the attention pronto.

"Fine," Fai whispered, and his eyes rested on Kurogane's face.

Kurogane slid in closer and kissed the violinist gently—long and slow, but not deep, no intentions for anything further. He pulled away and their gazes connected, Kurogane's eyes boring into Fai's. "Me," he said steadily. "All those fucking stupid names you call me. It's me."

Fai's eyebrows furrowed in the darkness. "Yeah. It's you? I don't—"

But Kurogane was kissing him again—hand fisting the musician's blond hair, yanking his head back, deeper into the mattress, this time with the very crystal _clear_ intention of something further. Fai felt another large hand slide down his side, gripping his hip tightly—bordering on painful, but not quite, that perfect pressure that had him soldering his body against every crevice available in Kurogane's. Kurogane's tongue was in his mouth, kissing him and kissing him and not giving him a single second for breath. The athlete wasn't sparing a single moment to stop, leaving Fai gasping for air whenever there was a chance. Kurogane himself seemed to have endless lungs, hands continuously, fluidly moving under Fai's shirt, making sure there was absolutely no space between their bodies.

And as suddenly as he'd sprung on Fai, Kurogane drew away, simply pulling off mid-kiss and for a split second afterward, while Fai was still high on lust—dazed and only feeling the absence of warmth and wetness on his mouth—he followed after Kurogane, searching for the athlete's lips. Kurogane came forward again, kissing Fai firmly and decidedly on the mouth with an obvious message to stop, just for a moment. Fai blinked his eyes, more confused than ever because Kurogane kissing him like that tended to have that effect. "Me," Kurogane repeated once again, and Fai was just as baffled as ever.

The musician wrinkled his nose. "Um—yeah—you."

Fai gasped.

Kurogane's hand was gripping Fai's crotch, easily finding the half-hard state of his cock through the flimsy cotton of his pajama bottoms. Kurogane kissed him again, this time much like the first one—soft and slow and innocent. "Me," Kurogane whispered into his ear, a low growl. "Not Kyle—not anyone. Me—Kuro-fucking-gane."

A flash of understanding whipped through Fai. He stared at the athlete.

_Thank you_

Fai smiled, still breathless from earlier, his chest heaving up and down. He cupped the back of Kurogane's neck with his hand and slid closer, this time kissing Kurogane himself. He raised his eyebrows. "Who's Kyle?"

_You're not an easy person for me  
Our love is like that sun—it doesn't melt  
Thousands of star celebrate us tonight  
Now I can change for you_

Kurogane may think that now that they've gotten through their obstacles, that Fai's gotten over Kyle as much as anyone can get over something so traumatizing, now that this is the present and they are together, he may think that Fai's thankfulness is also something of the past—the same way that you might thank someone for a card and once that was over, that's it.

Except Fai is thankful every day.

Neither of them knows how long they'll be together. Fai knows that Kurogane hopes as much as he himself that they'll be together forever—that impossible-sounding myth, that almost non-existent legend, that even someone as cynical as Seishiro hopes for with Subaru. But even if they don't get as far as forever, Fai knows that Kurogane will never let them end it messily—if it ends, as hard as Fai hopes it doesn't, if it ends, Fai knows that it's not going to end in tears and stinging words. If it ends, Fai knows it's going to end with them embracing and wishing the other better happiness in the future—even though Fai has no idea how he's going to get any happier than this, this with Kurogane.

He knows that if Kurogane wants to leave, Fai will learn to live without him. But what Fai doesn't know—doesn't even think is possible—is if Fai will ever find someone after Kurogane (he still maintains the hope that there will be no after). It's terribly hard, after all, to find someone to compare to the person who has done everything for you. Fai thinks it's awful to think this way, but no matter how hard Yuui and Ashura have tried, there's no getting around the fact that only Kurogane has succeeded.

Kurogane has done everything for Fai and Fai can't think of anything to do for Kurogane when it's the athlete's turn to jump over some hurdles in the form of a stubborn, lively soccer player. Fai doesn't know what he's supposed to do because this is Kurogane's vein of expertise and Fai is just stumbling along, smiling cleverly and trying to keep up that he is Fai fucking Fluorite and of course he knows what he's doing. He doesn't really know what he's doing, but he knows that Kurogane is far stronger and smarter than Fai will ever be and even if Fai is crap at things like this, Kurogane will figure it out himself and once again, Fai will have another thing to be thankful for.

Fai has never really thanked Kurogane for everything he's done—_for just loving Fai for Fai_—but he thinks that maybe it's better that he does his best to show through his actions because words can't possibly measure up to what Kurogane has done for Fai, and simple thanks definitely won't cut it.

But, as Kurogane throws his fist into the air and the crowd erupts as he's declared the winner of the championship match and Fai is racing down from the bleachers and they're kissing and the crowd screams louder from outrage or from excitement and as the cameras click to report this even though they've kissed in public too many times to count, as Fai pulls back and their eyes meet and Kurogane smirks before _leaning in again_—

Fai thinks that maybe, just _maybe_, Kurogane can feel at least a little of how thankful Fai is.

_Through you, I knew love and believed love  
Through you, I believe and dream about love  
I love you oh thank you, I learned about love  
I love you oh thank you_


	48. S and M: Late Night Snack

**A/N: **Finally! Skip-Step-Turn, here's your much, much, much, much, much long awaited request for some Mioru/Subaru BFF-ery (and it turns out that I'm actually very glad you requested this considering how much fun I had at the end.) I was originally going to have Mioru angsting-like-a-girl to Subaru somewhere in Unveiled about Senryuu, and I was going to work this in there, but it turned out to just be fluffy, BFF-ery so I just put it here. But timeline-wise, it would go in Unveiled, probably like a chapter or two after wherever we are in Unveiled now. So consider this an outtake of a chapter that hasn't even been written yet. (But it totally will once midterms/class registrations are over.)

Also, I posted the first two chapters of the Bleach thing I planned to write (and also *shameless self-promo* it'd make me ^_^ if you checked out Invisible Flying Objects and just tell me if it's something you'd like to see more of or not) at bleach_yaoi over at LJ under the same screenname so if you look at that it'd make me really ^_^

Yeah. I desperately need a snow day, by the way. So if any of you are in countries/states that are having a heavy white winter, please, blow it my way. Or something.

* * *

Late Night Snack

Subaru, Mioru had noticed, seemed to eat a lot more than someone that skinny would've been thought to. The trumpeter seemed to eat at regular hour intervals, and Mioru thought it stopped once Subaru went to bed, but he clearly thought wrong since the athlete had just gotten back from Senryuu's, it was well past midnight, and he found Subaru sitting on the couch in one of Seishiro's work shirts and not much else, stuffing his pretty face with little square cookies.

"You're a fatass," Mioru said, utterly confused at how this kind of biology was supposed to make sense.

The musician shrugged, and shifted his bare legs.

"Where's your bastard?" he asked next, kicking off his shoes and tossing his coat onto the same couch Subaru was sitting on.

"Asleep." The trumpeter ruffled the bag of cookies a bit and peered into it, frowning.

Mioru dropped his bags near a coffee table and went into the kitchen. He grabbed a water bottle from the refrigerator and joined Subaru on the couch. "Did you two fuck?"

Subaru nodded, and held the cookies out to him.

"No thanks." The athlete sniffed the bag cautiously. "I don't like almonds." He watched the musician shrug and continue eating. It could also be that Subaru needed the abnormal amount of calories to keep himself alive what with the abnormal amount of fucking Seishiro seemed to do to him. Sex was exercise, after all.

"You were out with Senryuu?"

"Yeah."

Subaru smiled quietly. "Doing what?"

"Each other," Mioru gave Subaru a look. "What else?"

The trumpeter shrugged. "I don't know. A movie—just talking. Out—like, not fucking."

Mioru snorted, realizing what he meant. "Oh—you mean like a date?"

Subaru looked faintly amused. "You make it sound like poison burning down your throat, but yeah—a date."

Mioru just snorted again.

"You don't seem to be on Kurogane much anymore these days," Subaru said quietly—_sneakily_. Clearly, the trumpeter had been hanging around the Maestro for too many years.

Mioru chose to wisely remain silent because he was smart like that.

"Maybe Senryuu likes you," the musician went on.

"Yeah, and maybe Seishiro doesn't enjoy kicking puppies, except we all know he does."

Subaru grinned.

Mioru sunk into the sofa, and tossed his water bottle up and down. "It's not like I'm thirteen. I can tell if someone likes me, and he definitely doesn't. I get that you and the Maestro want to marry me off and be done with all the angst I'm spurting up, but I'd rather just be alone forever then have something end as badly as me and Kurogane did again—I'm going to ruin someone else's life just so I can _try_ to be with someone."

The trumpeter frowned, sliding closer—their shoulders bumped. "Wait, who told you that you ruined Kurogane's life?"

"Well, didn't I? He just wants to be left alone in peace with Fai, but then I keep popping up." Mioru stared resolutely at his water bottle because thinking about Kurogane in the middle of the night right after having sex (with someone that wasn't Kurogane)—which always made him feel more vulnerable—and not having any alcohol in his system was just not a good thing to do.

"I think," Subaru said softly, "that if Kurogane heard you say that, he'd be fairly pissed. I actually think he considers you one of the best things that's ever happened to him. Second only to Fai."

Mioru squinted. "Really? Because I think he considers me one of the best things that's ever happened to me second only to a wasp that gets stuck on the side of his windshield. Has that ever happened to you? It's happened to me and it's a pain the ass to get those motherfuckers out."

Subaru burst out laughing at such a sudden volume that Mioru was almost afraid Seishiro would come barging in with a rifle demanding to know who dared to wake up the Maestro at butt-fuck-o'clock a.m. The trumpeter collapsed into Mioru's shoulders, still shaking slightly and Mioru couldn't resist the tiny smile that he felt slipping onto his own face at the feel of Subaru's body—warm and soft.

"Ah," Subaru said, breathlessly, composing himself with exaggerated breaths. "Funny."

"I try," Mioru said with a grin.

Subaru didn't sit back up. Instead, he continued to lie, half-leaning into Mioru, head against the athlete's shoulder, boneless and warm and comforting. "I think Senryuu likes you," Subaru said matter-of-factly.

"I think you're just trying to make me feel better," Mioru retorted, resting his head atop the trumpeter's.

"I think you like him back."

Mioru felt heat rush through his face, tipping his ears. He said nothing, because he wasn't that even if he could lie in his words, that his tone wouldn't give him away because he knew that he was about as good as Kurogane was in concealing feelings subtly.

After minutes of waiting silence, Subaru pulled away to look at Mioru's face. He stared at the athlete expressionlessly for all of three seconds before smiling in a way that Mioru hated. "No," the soccer player said flatly before anything else happened. "_No_. Absolutely not. I _don't_."

Subaru laughed. "You do—oh my God, you really do and it's so fucking adorable that you do."

"No it's not. It's actually rather pathetic for someone over the age of eighteen to have a crush on someone who's clearly not interested," Mioru sniffed.

"You don't have to be in high school to like someone," Subaru said.

Mioru grumbled incoherently because it was too late to do something like this—and just how did Subaru have all this energy past midnight? If Mioru wasn't so agitated about the fact that now someone else knew about his crush, he'd be struggling to keep his eyes open. "It doesn't change anything. Senryuu doesn't like me back, and I'd rather he not."

"No you don't," Subaru murmured. "You actually really, really, really want him to like you back, don't you?"

Mioru bit his lip, looking up into that familiar, gentle emerald that always seemed to be there for him these days. "I do," he said slowly, eyebrow furrowed in thought. "Just—not quite yet. Because I don't think I'm really over Kurogane enough to have someone like me back—and that's not fair to Senryuu." He snorted softly. "Besides, Senryuu's seen me at my fucking worst, and after that, I'm not sure there's anything to like."

"Are you sure?" Subaru asked, smiling. "If a person sees your worst and still likes you—shouldn't you be with him instead of the person that likes you because they've only seen your best?"

Mioru groaned and buried his face in Subaru's neck. "Ugh—don't say stuff like that. I'm just a dumb jock—I'm not supposed to care about shit like this."

He could practically hear Subaru's eyes roll. "We all know your brilliant, so stop it. It's not like anyone can forget Maikeru's teachers practically having aneurysms 'cause they thought you were cheating and could never catch you because you _weren't_."

Mioru raised his eyes, smirking. "I know, right? They thought I was, like, Harry Potter."

"Yeah," Subaru smiled indulgently, "you're a genius. So use that genius mind and get a move on with Senryuu. He likes you back—I can _tell_." The trumpeter could feel the athlete pouting against his neck.

"This is ridiculous," Mioru mumbled. "We sound like high school girls—although I still maintain that you're just a girl with a detachable dick, but don't let Seishiro hear me say that because then I'd lose mine. And mine's definitely not detachable."

Subaru laughed. "No, mine definitely isn't either." He threaded his fingers through Mioru's, their hands against their thighs, warm and familiar. He wondered, as he felt the athlete's steady breathing puffing against his neck, when he'd become so close to Mioru. He'd always thought, always sort of expected, that he'd be best friends with Fai—in a fated, match-up kind of way because of the way Yuui and Kamui were close. During their last, chaotic year of high school, Subaru had become closer to Fai, but after that, not so much. It'd been more of an arrangement than a friendship—not to say they weren't friends, because they were. They understood each other.

But somehow, Mioru had ended up becoming so much more.

Mioru was a year younger than Subaru, loud, brash, most times acted like he was about twelve, usually not afraid to let other people know he was horny or pissed or a mixture of both, felt that most everyone should marvel at his hotness by lifting his shirt to display his abs often, and liked to latch himself onto Subaru despite the Grave Danger that was Seishiro. Mioru also hated learning, hated reading books, hated being lectured.

But Mioru was also a year younger than Subaru and thus loved to fall asleep against Subaru, loved to act like the little kid his parents had never let him be. Mioru, even if he hated everything related to education, could ace tests without studying, sleep through classes and cram the night before and easily pass—and beyond the classroom, Mioru always seemed to have a sort of wit that sometimes, though rare, even had the Maestro defeated in laughter. Mioru had wide, full eyes that disappeared whenever he laughed and smiled. Mioru, despite the effortless body he maintained after an entire lifetime of soccer, had a face that really wasn't as masculine as Subaru knew the athlete wanted it to be. It was still pretty in a boyish way and, like Subaru and Kamui, Mioru often got carded at clubs.

"What's Senryuu like?" Mioru asked, gently pulling Subaru back from his thoughts—the trumpeter had thought that the athlete had fallen asleep.

"You probably know better than me by now," he teased as the soccer player shifted against Subaru's side before sinking in once again, arms around the musician's waist.

Mioru snorted. "You never know—you might be hiding his deep dark secrets about being an assassin that has it out for me because of his great-great-fucking ancestors grudge against mine."

"Maybe you need more sleep," Subaru said, raising his eyebrows.

"Shut up," Mioru grumbled, pouting. He sighed and buried his face into Subaru's neck again. "Ah—fuck my life. You know what? I should just date you instead. I haven't topped in ages."

This time, Subaru really was afraid that he'd wake Seishiro up—but it couldn't be helped—the trumpeter laughed hard. He was shaking to the point that Mioru drew away, looking simply glummer. "I should, you know," Mioru went on in that same, miserable tone that didn't help Subaru's convulsions at all. "It'd make everything a whole lot easier and you're really hot."

It was at least two minutes of Subaru painfully attempting to retain oxygen and stop shaking so hard before he actually succeeded and managed to look at Mioru's resigned expression without laughing again. "But you _hate_ topping," the trumpeter finally said, breathlessly and still feeling that laughter threatening to bubble up.

"I still have some male pride, you know," Mioru replied, clearly offended.

Subaru stared. "But you _hate_ topping. It takes you _forever_ to get off when you top."

"Shh," Mioru hissed frantically. "The Maestro's in the fucking next room—do you know that I'll never hear the end of it if he hears what you're fucking on about?"

Subaru struggled to keep a straight face. "Okay then. I mean, you give good head and I'd go for that, except I'm already taken by the one in the next room."

Mioru threw himself back against the couch, his head lolling back gloomily. "God, that makes me feel tons better." He slid his eyes slowly to Subaru. "I do give good head, don't I?"

The straight face thing just wasn't working out—it never did when Subaru was around Mioru. "The best," Subaru agreed solemnly before bursting out into laughter once again.


End file.
